


Stay With Me

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Bombs, Canon Disabled Character, Chemical Weapons, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Gore, Graphic Depictions of War, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, Heavy Parallels to the Holocaust in Chapter 3, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Minor Character Death, Needles, Non-Consensual Tattooing, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, This is not a happy fic until the end, Torture, War, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28312266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are wed on a cool autumn morning with tears in their eyes and a heaviness in their hearts after Jaskier receives a letter stamped with the red seal of Redania that changes their lives forever.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 54
Kudos: 127





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AvoidingAverage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and if you don't celebrate: wonderful day! I had the absolute pleasure of getting to write this fic for the one and only AvoidingAverage.
> 
> Also it is a complete coincidence that, as I was writing this, [Spielzeugkaiser](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/) did some [absolutely](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/637497765472141312/okay-who-has-seen-atonement-here-i-keep-doing) [amazing](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/637950769095671808/my-dear-there-is-so-much-to-see-the-french-are) [art](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/638042180526718977/he-came-back-there-was-an-explosion-must-have) with a similar idea :D
> 
> Thank you to [ghostinthelibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary) for beta-ing the first chapter!

On a cool autumn morning, not long before the celebrations of Samhain, Geralt and Jaskier are wed. The sun is just kissing the horizon, lightening the murky clouds to a stone blue and turning the dark sea into a glittering gray canvas upon which the sky is painted. Their clasped hands are ensconced in a golden ribbon, fingertips pressed to delicate wrists over their fluttering hearts, the ends of the ribbon dancing in the bitter breeze. It blows their hair around their faces, obscuring them from cruel eyes. Teary blue gazes into watering gold, neither of them wearing a smile on what should be a joyous occasion as they whisper stolen promises into the wind.

* * *

Two Weeks Earlier

Tender lips against the shell of his ear awaken Geralt slowly, a warm and heavy weight against his back and across his hip. He inhales deeply as a gentle smile curls his sleepy lips and he gracelessly turns around in Jaskier’s arms, throwing a leg over both of his lover’s. Jaskier huffs a small laugh, running his fingers through snowy hair and dancing them across the patches of pale skin that litter Geralt’s body. He’s always hated his vitiligo– thought it made him look like Frankenstein's monster, truthfully– but Jaskier loves him, loves every part of him. Each pale patch, each freckle, each shock of white hair mixed with auburn on his chest. Jaskier was the one to help him bleach the hair of his head into a singular color after he’d admitted that he dyes his own hair a darker brown than it is naturally.

Jaskier taught him how to love himself, just as thoroughly as he loves Jaskier.

“Good morning,” Jaskier murmurs, expression soft in the dawning light that streams through their bedroom window. They moved in together just over a year ago and Geralt hasn’t regretted it for a second. Geralt wrinkles his nose as he peels one eye open to peer at his boyfriend.

“Would have been better without your morning breath.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen comically as a dramatically offended expression blossoms on his face, “I– well–  _ excuse _ you! I, the loving and caring boyfriend that I am, managed to get  _ out of bed _ without waking your sleeping ass just so I could brush my teeth and rid myself of said  _ morning breath _ before waking you up in the most beautiful and loving way I could think–”

Geralt surges forward , pressing his lips to Jaskier’s to quiet the indignant man and laughs into his mouth. Jaskier makes a noise of protest but doesn’t pull away, wrapping an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and turning them to straddle his thighs. Geralt skims an appreciative hand along Jaskier’s ribs on the way to slip his fingers under the band of Jaskier’s boxers and squeeze his pert derriere.

Jaskier laughs into the kiss before deepening it, something sweet and light turning heavy and filthy as he licks into Geralt’s mouth, exploring the well-traversed space with the same excitement he has every time he revisits. He gasps into a moan when Geralt’s fingers dip into the cleft of his cheeks and press against his hole, hips jerking to push back against the thick digits. In retribution, Jaskier’s thin fingers dance down Geralt’s chest to rub over his nipples, tweaking them gently and making Geralt groan.

“Don’t forget who you’re toying with,” Jaskier purrs, ducking his head to bite and lick along Geralt’s jaw and neck.

He groans again as Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s wiry chest hair, tugging lightly and scratching his nails with the exact amount of pressure he knows Geralt likes. “I could never,” Geralt gasps, grip tightening on the flesh beneath his palm. Jaskier grinds his hips down against Geralt’s, their hard cocks rubbing together through their underwear and causing them both to let their heads drop; Jaskier’s onto Geralt’s chest and Geralt’s back into the pillow. 

Geralt knows he probably isn’t going to get more than a round of delightful frotting, as Jaskier’s legs are sore from his new job and Geralt can rarely top due to the chronic pain in his leg and arm from an injury he sustained as a child. But he’s happy just to be with Jaskier, any pleasure they share beyond that is a gift, something to be treasured. 

Geralt’s wandering thoughts are grounded by the drag of Jaskier’s lips across the pale column of his throat, his breath catching with each roll of Jaskier’s hips. He’s hurtling towards his release, the pressure of impending ecstasy building in his stomach and trembling legs. His fingers shake as they push through Jaskier’s thick hair to scratch at his scalp and clutch his lover close as he’s choked by a sudden wave of how  much he loves Jaskier.

“You okay?” Jaskier asks softly, not stopping but slowing to allow Geralt to recover.

Geralt blinks away the surprising wetness of his burning eyes as he focuses on the concern in Jaskier’s– always such an intense blue, Geralt wonders how he doesn’t get lost in the depths– and swallows thickly with a nod. “Yeah,” he croaks and Jaskier brings a hand up to caress Geralt’s cheek, rubbing his thumb gently across the pale patch on the right side of his face. 

“We can stop if you’re not enjoying this.”

“No, no, I am,” Geralt shakes his head and clears his throat, “Just… I just love you.”

Jaskier’s face crumples with relief and adoration, a bashful smile tugging at his lips as he ducks his head while his cheeks flush red.  _ “Geralt,”  _ he admonishes. For someone so confident in himself and his every move, Geralt’s never seen anyone more shy when it comes to being given affection. 

Geralt guides his head back up to kiss him sweetly, watching as Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut and the slow grind of his hips stutters. “I love you,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s lips, feeling the skin of his cheeks warm beneath Geralt’s fingers.

“I love you, too,” Jaskier whispers, “So,  _ so, _ much. Remember that, won’t you?”

Geralt opens his mouth to ask what Jaskier means when he reinvigorates the rolling of his hips, pushing Geralt over the edge with his jaw dropping and a punched out groan escaping his throat. Jaskier follows quickly, their drawers damp and sticky against their skin and quickly cooling in the autumn morning. Jaskier makes a face as he carefully moves away and, before Geralt can try to circle back to his odd phrasing, is already getting up.

“We ought to bathe, I think. Would you prefer a bath or shower, my love?”

He thinks about the metal chair set up in their small shower, and how cramped the space becomes with it there. Jaskier usually removes it when he needs to shower quickly before going to work or after he’s gotten home, but if they’re both in the shower then it’ll need to stay. 

“Bath, please,” Geralt sits up with a small groan, his back popping and leg already aching. Jaskier leans down to press a light kiss to white locks as he hums his assent.

“I’ll get one drawn then.” He dances away into the bathroom and Geralt watches him go, both appreciating the view and contemplating Jaskier’s odd actions. Ordinarily, he lounges around forever after they have any sort of sex, in a sort of fugue of endorphins and happiness. But today he seems anxious, full of that jittery sort of energy that strikes him when he’s afraid. But what is he afraid of?

_ “Remember that, won’t you?” _

Geralt frowns as he looks down at his hands in his lap, the fingers of his right arm trembling as his elbow holds stiffly when he tries to curl them. Is Jaskier going to leave him? Has he finally proven to be too much? He had been promised– when they started dating almost half a decade before– that he would never be too difficult for Jaskier, not with his chronic pain and persistent attitude or the care and attention he needs every single day. His disabilities are many, but Jaskier has never complained about them before, he’s never once made Geralt feel like a burden, so why is he acting so strangely?

“Bath’s ready, darling,” Jaskier announces as he re-enters the room, naked as the day he was born. Were they earlier in their relationship, Geralt would have turned red as a tomato. “Do you want your cane or for me to help?”

“The cane is fine,” he grunts, moving to the edge of the bed and grabbing his assistive device. He leans heavily on it as he follows Jaskier back into the bathroom, the air humid and thick with the steam of the bath. There’s a smiley face drawn into the condensation on the mirror, layered by hundreds of others from Jaskier drawing them every time the bathroom air is thick enough to hide the glass. Geralt smiles slightly at the sight of the two dots and smiling curve, holding still as Jaskier helps him remove his own underwear. 

He didn’t used to allow his partner to do this, too embarrassed by the action to admit to the ease of letting Jaskier help him rather than perching on the edge of the tub and struggling to balance while taking them off himself. But then he fell and nearly needed to go to the hospital after hitting his head– something neither of them can afford– and Jaskier insisted that Geralt needed to stop being stubborn and let him help, dammit! 

Since then, Geralt has to admit things are easier for him than they used to be, and Jaskier never judges him for needing the help either so it’s a win-win situation. With Jaskier’s assistance, he steps into the tub and settles into the nearly scalding water with a satisfied groan, the faint aromas of chamomile and rose wafting from the surface. Jaskier must have tossed in some of his bath salts, a rarity for how expensive they are with the way goods are rationed these days. 

“Are you getting in?” Geralt asks, opening his eyes again to look up at his lover, perched on the edge of the tub and running his fingers through Geralt’s long hair. Jaskier is looking at him with a silent intensity, as though memorizing every facet of who Geralt is, his blue eyes blazing in the buzzing lights of their overhead fluorescents. Jaskier puts on a smile that doesn’t look quite right as he waves his hand. That feeling of something  _ wrong _ returns, but Geralt pushes it away. If Jaskier wanted to tell him something, he would.

“Oh, I rather think our tub is too small, dear.”

“You didn’t say that last week when you wanted to prove how long you could hold your breath while–”

_ “Yes, _ well, it was small then, too,” Jaskier sniffs, turning his nose up even as his cheeks plump with a grin. Geralt rolls his eyes and tugs Jaskier into the tub, the water sloshing over the sides as he lands in Geralt’s lap with his long legs hooked over the edge. “Geralt!” Jaskier laughs, “I’m going to have to clean all that up!”

“Our apartment’s a shithole anyway, what’s a little more mildew, huh?” Geralt buries his face into Jaskier’s shoulder, pressing light butterfly kisses to the warm skin there.

“A lost security deposit, for starters."

Geralt groans, “Do you have to be so logical? That’s usually my job. When did you grow up suddenly?”

“We all have to grow up sometime, Geralt,” Jaskier is smiling but his voice sounds hollow. “Seems about time I did it, too.”

Geralt frowns, looking up with concern, “Is everything okay?”

“Hm? Of course, why do you ask?” 

“You just seem a little… out of gas, I suppose.”

Jaskier turns and arches an eyebrow at him, “You calling me a drip?”

“Not at all, I’m just concerned. Are you sure everything’s alright?”

“I promise, love, I’m alright. It’s just been hard at this new job,” Jaskier brings a wet hand up to cup Geralt’s jaw and brings their lips together, chasing away any more of Geralt’s concerns with his expressions of love.

Later, after they’ve luxuriated in the bath long enough for their skin to prune and their teeth to chatter, they get dressed and Jaskier sits Geralt down at the small kitchen table as he insists on making them breakfast. 

Geralt is, understandably, wary– Jaskier’s track record with cooking isn’t the best, the man could burn a boiling pot of water– but he’s so earnest as he putters around their tiny kitchen, rummaging through cabinets and their ice box for the ingredients to make eggs and toast. Geralt watches as he takes their last two eggs for the week and cracks them into a bowl, making a small mess of the counter and wincing slightly before wiping it clean with a tea towel. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” Geralt asks gently, “We don’t get more eggs till Monday, dear.”

“I know, I know! But I’m certain I can make two eggs scrambled, darling. And toast is made by the toaster, I just put the bread in the machine and it does all the work for me,” Jaskier whisks a little too hard at first and gets egg on his shirt, pursing his lips and slowing the speed of his fork. He secretly glances over his shoulder, making eye contact with Geralt who raises an eyebrow at him, and Jaskier turns bright red as he turns back to the counter, “Don’t look at me like that! I can make  _ eggs, _ Geralt.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“You don’t  _ sound _ like you think that.”

“Because I don’t.”

Jaskier huffs, pouring the eggs into the cold pan and biting back an annoyed groan as he turns the stove on and the burner up to a higher heat to cook faster. Geralt leans over and switches the radio on, tuning it to the news.

_ “...a new draft order has just gone out, so boys of the North be on the lookout for the seal of your country to join the fight against Emreis and the goons down South. Word from the front is that the war effort is going great, we’ve stopped the Nilfgaardians from taking Metinna and we’re fighting to get back Ebbing! Queen Calanthe had this to say about the front–” _

“Oh, turn it off, Geralt. I don’t want to hear about the war right now,” Jaskier complains, his shoulders and back stiff as he keeps his eyes focused on the eggs. Geralt glances at him and nods, changing the tuning to a music station and the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby fill the kitchen. Jaskier hums along until he softly croons along, scraping the spatula along the bottom of the pan as the eggs burn from the high heat and lack of oil.

The toaster dings as it pops up and Jaskier glances over, looking between the toast and the eggs a few times as he bites his lip. They don’t have enough butter to flavor the toast, so Geralt watches as Jaskier puts the toast on plates and then puts the slightly burned egg straight on top and then setting the plates down on the table. 

“Tada! Bon appetit, ma chérie,” Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s head before getting them each a glass of water and sitting down across from him.

“Less burned than usual, maybe you  _ are _ learning,” Geralt teases and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I told you I could cook eggs, Geralt. It’s your own fault you didn’t believe me.”

“I’ve only shown you how to make eggs a dozen times and you always forget.”

“But this time I  _ didn’t!” _ Jaskier puffs up his chest, blue eyes twinkling, “Aren’t you proud of me?”

Geralt wants to give him a sharp retort, something quick and cutting and witty, but Jaskier’s earnest expression and the way he’s leaned towards Geralt… well, it makes his heart soften, as Jaskier is so often wont to do. “Very proud, thank you, Jask.”

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier nods in a self-satisfied manner, positively glowing with the praise as he digs into his own breakfast. It worries Geralt, sometimes, how thin Jaskier is. He’s always hungry but insists upon giving Geralt the larger portions even as Geralt only works part-time on his father’s farm; and even that is just balancing the books and sometimes brushing down some of the horses when his leg isn’t trembling beneath him like it has been today. But when Geralt tries to encourage Jaskier to eat just a little bit more he insists that Geralt get it every time because he’s an inch taller and quite a bit broader. 

However, Geralt knows that if Jaskier were eating properly he could be just as filled out as Geralt is. He was in much better shape when they were younger, before they were even dating and were just friends for the summers Jaskier was sent to Morhen Farms to get him out of the house and away from the building tensions in the west. Now they live in Ard Carraigh, in a shitty little apartment that their meager funds can afford as Jaskier was disowned by his parents once he told them he wasn’t returning to Kerack. 

Geralt still feels like it’s his fault that Jaskier doesn’t live a lush and plentiful lifestyle such as what his noble upbringing would have given him. Instead he lives in near squalor, slaving the days away in a smokey factory and coming home covered in soot and exhausted beyond measure. His pale skin carries dark circles under his eyes and the freckles across his face from days in the sun have nearly faded away entirely. The one time he tried to push Jaskier away, spouting cruel words with crueler intentions, Jaskier had left for a few weeks before returning and demanding an apology. Geralt had had the worst three weeks in recent memory when Jaskier was gone so he hadn’t put up a fuss and readily apologized. 

“So, I’m thinking maybe we could go to lunch today? If you’re feeling up for it, of course,” Jaskier interrupts Geralt’s brooding with the innocent question. If Geralt didn’t know better, he’d think Jaskier did just want to spend his day off going for a nice lark together; as it is, Geralt knows Jaskier very well and can tell that something is still bothering him. Especially since they almost certainly can’t afford two meals out on the town together.

“Do we have enough money for that?” Geralt asks hesitantly. Last he heard, Jaskier’s paycheck was just barely enough to cover their rent and bills this month.

Jaskier waves his hand dismissively, “Of course! I wouldn’t suggest it if we didn’t. I had a nice little influx of cash yesterday and I want to spend it on you.”

“Why wouldn’t we save it for a rainy day?” 

“I–”

“Or an emergency?”

“We’ve got an emergency fund already, Geralt.”

Geralt frowns, “That we nearly depleted the last time I had a doctor’s appointment.”

“It’s  _ fine, _ Geralt. I promise, I’ll put some of the money into the savings account and we can use some of it on a nice meal,” Jaskier looks tired, rubbing his eyes, “I know you think I don’t know the value of money, but I swear we’ve got enough.”

Geralt looks down at his half-eaten toast with a reluctant frown. He supposes… if he gets something small at the restaurant it won’t cost them very much, “Alright. Okay. You just want to do something nice today, I get it.”

Jaskier deflates, his shoulders relaxing as he sighs, “Yes, thank you. It’s been a while since we’ve gone somewhere nice, don’t you think?”

They’ve never gone somewhere nice, Geralt thinks. The nicest place they’ve been since Jaskier was disowned was the drive-in to see  _ Citizen Kane _ for Geralt’s birthday two years earlier– and even that was kind of shit because neither of them have a car and had to go with Renfri and Deidre. It was made extra uncomfortable by the fact that their viewing was accompanied by extra the sound effects of the ladies making out the entire time while Geralt and Jaskier sat on top of the car. Jaskier deserves a nice lunch out, the change to dress up in their Sunday best and go to a good restaurant for a fancy meal.

“I suppose,” Geralt nods slowly, “Do you already have a reservation somewhere?”

“No, I figured we’d just go to Triss’s Diner.”

“Oh, so not actually all  _ that _ nice?”

Jaskier scowls, genuinely upset by this, “Why would you say that? Triss and her establishment are both lovely. I’d just like to get out with you one more time before–”

“Before what, Jask?” Geralt frowns. “What’s going on?”

He sighs and shakes his head, standing up, “Nothing. Let’s just… can we please have a nice day? Please?” Jaskier looks so sad, so defeated as he begs Geralt for a fun outing, how can Geralt say no to him? Whatever is bothering him will come up at some point, he’s sure, but can Geralt be blamed for wanting to know now? It’s like Jaskier thinks he’s going to die or something.

“Okay,” Geralt sighs, picking up his toast and taking another bite, “Give me an hour and we can go to Triss’s. I’ll take some medication before we go so I can walk.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to use the–”

_ “No, _ Jaskier,” Geralt cuts him off sharply, “I don’t want to use the wheelchair. And I know for a fact we don’t have the funds for a cab. I’ll walk and it’ll be fine, just grab me my painkillers.”

Jaskier bites his tongue and nods, getting the prescription bottle from the cabinet and shaking out two little white pills that he hands to Geralt. Geralt swallows them dry and chases them down with the last of his toast before getting to his feet and picking up his plate, placing it in the sink. 

“I’ll do the dishes,” Jaskier says softly, still looking so unbearably  _ sad _ and Geralt doesn’t know  _ why. _

“Jaskier, if something was wrong… you know you can tell me, right?” 

Jaskier nods and gives him a wan smile, reaching up to squeeze Geralt’s shoulder, “Of course, my dear. Now, go have a lie down and be your dreamboat self while I wash up.” 

Geralt bites back another sigh, this one of frustration as he watches Jaskier guard his secrets closely, and leans over to kiss Jaskier’s soft cheek, fresh from a shave. “Okay, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Geralt.”

He nods and turns away, hobbling his way back into the bedroom and sitting down on the sheets that Jaskier changed at some point, their dirty ones in the laundry hamper and waiting to be taken to the laundromat. Jaskier rarely ever asks for anything in return, nothing  _ serious _ at least, and the one time he did ask for something Geralt fought him on it. Why would he do that? He’s lucky to have Jaskier, why is he  _ arguing _ against something as simple as going out for a meal? It’s not like Jaskier’s asking him for the moon.

He listens to Jaskier cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen, the curses as he fights the burnt eggs on the pan, the quiet singing as he croons the lyrics to whatever’s playing on the radio, the gentle thumps of his socked heels on the linoleum floor. It should all be familiar and comforting, and yet Geralt can’t help the sense of dread that settles over him like wool.

If you’ve ever felt the prickling feeling of eyes on your neck, the swooping of your stomach and thundering of your heart just before disaster befell you, then you know exactly how Geralt is feeling as he absently dresses in a button down shirt and his nicest slacks, combing his hair into an approximation of tidiness that Jaskier bullies him into fixing twenty minutes later. You’ll know that his palms are clammy, his breaths coming in short, shaking gasps that he barely has a handle on to not arouse suspicion. You’ll know that he’s watching Jaskier’s every move, for his lover is the source of the anxiety, and he just desperately wants to know what is it that Jaskier isn’t telling him.

If you’ve ever felt like one wrong step and you’ll fall through the face of the earth into the unknown, then you know exactly how Geralt is feeling as he walks alongside Jaskier to the diner, their arms linked as they always are in public. You’ll know that he’s focused on the beat of his feet on the pavement. You’ll know that he’s zeroed in on the touch of Jaskier’s arm against his own, the sensation of his hat on his head, the prick of the metal rimmed tinted glasses on his nose to protect his sensitive eyes from the bright autumn sun. 

If you’ve ever felt like your grasp on your world is hanging on by a thread, then you know exactly how Geralt is feeling right now as he sits down across from Jaskier in a squeaky red vinyl booth.

Their conversation is light and barely more than small talk as they eat their ordered meals, Jaskier scarfing down his burger as though it’ll walk away if he leaves it for just a second. Geralt knows this is from growing up with five older brothers who all would fight and jostle for everything in their household, pitted against one another in competition by their father and pushing for the attention of their mother. Geralt knows the reason Jaskier orders a vanilla milkshake with chocolate sprinkles is because chocolate ones give him a stomach ache but he loves chocolate anyway. Geralt knows why Jaskier reaches across the table once every five minutes or so to touch Geralt’s hand, anchoring himself in the moment and reassuring himself that Geralt is with him after the scare they had last year with Geralt’s health.

He doesn’t know why Jaskier won’t tell him what’s wrong.

Finally, as they’re splitting a slice of banana cream pie and Jaskier is chattering about the weather as though nothing is wrong in the slightest, Geralt snaps.

“What is going on with you?” he demands loudly. Jaskier stops talking, looking startled, and Geralt glances around with a faint blush at the number of eyes on him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Geralt,” Jaskier replies carefully, setting his fork down and reaching out to take Geralt’s hand.

Geralt pulls it away, ignoring the hurt expression on Jaskier’s face, “You’ve been acting bonkers all day. Just tell me what’s  _ wrong. _ This is making me feel real fucking crummy, Jask.”

“Don’t flip your wig, alright? There’s nothing wrong–”

“Stop  _ lying!” _ Geralt keeps his voice quiet even as his red cheeks betray his frustration.

Jaskier settles his hands in his lap, and Geralt knows he’s rubbing his thumbs against his fingers anxiously as his eyes dart around the restaurant for an escape. “I… Geralt, you know I love you more than anything in the world.”

Some of the tension in his shoulders eases but not the rod stuck through his spine as Geralt frowns, “What’s wrong? What is going on? Are you breaking up with me?”

“No, of course not! I just… I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to end things with me.”

“Did you  _ cheat on me?” _

“No, Geralt, I’d never,” Jaskier shakes his head quickly, “Just… here.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, withdrawing a cream colored envelope. It’s light, barely heavy enough to feel in his hand as Geralt takes it, his eyes focused on the red eagle printed on the seal. The letter is addressed to Julian Alfred Pankratz, the return listing the Redanian Drafting Department. Geralt’s hands start to tremble as he pushes his fingers into the cut edge, pulling out the single sheet of paper.

**_Order to Report for Induction_ **

_ The King of Redania,  
_ _ To Julian Alfred Pankratz.  
_ _ Order No. 1704 _

_ Greetings, _

_ Having submitted yourself to the Redanian Government at age 18 for the purpose of determining your availability for training and service in the land or naval forces of the nation of Redania, you are hereby notified that you have now been selected for training and service therein. _

_ You will, therefore, report to the local board of Lettenhove in Kerack at 7:15 A.M. on the 3rd day of October, 1943. _

Geralt skims the rest of the notice, his stomach churning and bile rising to the back of his throat as he feels his face go pale and his hands shake harder. How could this have happened? Jaskier assured him that he wouldn’t be drafted, he’s from Kerack! Kerack isn’t part of Redania, how could he be drafted for Redanian service?

“How–” Geralt croaks and Jaskier lowers his eyes to the table.

“Redania acquired Kerack as a territory four years ago,” he whispers. Right before Jaskier turned eighteen. Right when the war began.

Geralt looks down at the notice again, the paper crumpled in his tight grip, “Were you going to tell me?”

“Of course, Geralt, absolutely,” Jaskier is quick to say, “I just… I got the notice yesterday when I retrieved the mail and I– I just didn’t know what to  _ do, _ Geralt. I’m  _ scared.” _

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and smoothing the paper out on the table before folding it and slipping it back into the envelope, “What did you sell?”

Jaskier looks surprised, head snapping up, “What?”

“You said you came into a lot of cash yesterday. You also got this notice yesterday. What did you sell?”

Blue eyes look away, shame coloring Jaskier’s cheeks, “My family ring.”

_ “Jaskier.” _

“I  _ know! _ I know, you told me never to sell it but– but– I don’t get any money to send home to you during basic training and I wanted to make sure you’d be okay,” Jaskier has tears in his eyes, his lip wobbling with the threat of the kind of loud, dramatic weeping Jaskier does without thought. “And gods know if I  _ die, _ how can I take care of us if I’m gone? How would you even know if that happened?”

Geralt quickly reaches across the table, grabbing Jaskier’s hand and bringing it to his lips, “Marry me.”

“I– w-what?”

“Marry me, Jaskier. As soon as we can. And then if… if something happened to you I’d…” Geralt chokes on the thought, “I’d get to see you again.”

“My corpse you mean.”

“You’d be forgotten otherwise,” Geralt breathes, “Please, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks at him, his tears spilling over and onto his red cheeks as he nods, “Okay. Yes, okay, I’ll marry you.”

* * *

On a cool autumn morning, not long before the celebrations of Samhain, Geralt and Jaskier are wed beneath a miserable sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	2. Your Buttercup, Your Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for this chapter: Graphic Depictions of War, Chemical Warfare, Graphic Depiction of Gore, Graphic Depiction of Gunfire, Alcohol
> 
> The character Rook belongs to [StarsInMyDamnEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes/pseuds/StarsInMyDamnEyes) and the characters Drummond and Ashwood belong to [concertconfetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti).
> 
> Thank you to ghostinthelibrary for beta-ing!

_October 17th, 1943_ _  
_ _Redania_

_My dearest Geralt,_

_Basic training has been hell. I don’t say this to garner your sympathies, but to impress upon you how much I loathe being here. First, I am apart from you, thousands of kilometers away in Redania while you reside in our shithole of an apartment in Kaedwen. I miss you terribly, and have trouble falling asleep every night. Second, I’ve never done this much physical activity in my life, not even when I worked at the lumberyard. They run us for hours before we have class on various subjects for another few hours and then weapons training for another few hours and then we go to bed to do it all again. At least we’re getting three square meals per day!_

_I love you,  
_ _Your Buttercup_

The siren to awaken them to the dawning light goes off just before the sun kisses the horizon, the sky lightening to a pale gray and thin clouds drifting overhead. Jaskier startles awake with the sound and the lights snapping on, as the alarm does to him every day, and he nearly flails off of the bunk. Ostyn laughs at him as he gets up from the bunk beneath him, the other rookies already up at the first wail of the siren and changing into their rust-colored fatigues. Jaskier scowls as he jumps down, scratching his hand over his shorn hair that itches with each millimeter of growth, and quickly swaps his pajamas for his own fatigues.

His tags jingle around his neck as he bends down to lace up his boots, pulling them tight around his ankles and loose at the top for the least chance of blistering. The door slams open as Jaskier skitters to his spot in his line, planting his hands at his sides.

“ATTENTION!” Sergeant Drummond shouts upon entry, all the lads snapping to attention and clasping their hands behind their backs. Jaskier keeps his chin raised and ignores the way his nose immediately starts to itch and twitch. It’s annoying as _fuck,_ the way he always has to fidget or else something involuntary will happen. 

He casts his eyes skyward to stare at one of the overhead lights, trying desperately not to sneeze as his face scrunches up. The Sergeant’s footsteps draw closer, his boots thumping on the floor menacingly. _Please, please, please, please,_ Jaskier prays as his nose tickles more, _please don’t sneeze while the Sergeant is in here–_

 _“Achoo!”_ Jaskier’s head snaps down as he sneezes, not able to get his arm up in time to cover his mouth and nose. He opens his eyes to see boots standing directly in front of him, his heart jackrabbiting and his face paling as he looks up. The Sergeant is looking at him with an expression of disgust, saliva from the spray of Jaskier’s sneeze gleaming on face as he pulls a handkerchief out and wipes his skin clear.

“I– I am _so_ sorry, Sergeant Drummond, sir,” Jaskier stammers, the other rookies snickering around him, “I didn’t– I mean it was–”

“Silence, private!” Sergeant Drummond barks at him, “What’s your name?”

Jaskier sniffs, slowly placing his hands back behind him, “Pankratz, sir. Julian Pankratz.”

“Drop and give me forty, Pankratz!”

Jaskier groans internally but gets to the ground, starting to do push ups. He goes down until his nose touches the floor and, before he can lift up again, a heavy boot is planted between his shoulder blades. He freezes, his arms immediately starting to burn from the awkward position.

“Keep it moving, Pankratz,” the Sergeant commands, “I’m giving you some extra meat on your noodle arms. It’s fucking embarrassing! Where did you work before you were enlisted, son?”

“Kaedwen, sir,” Jaskier wheezes as he pushes up against the force of the Sergeant’s boot, “I worked in a factory.”

“Doing what? Sewing dollies for little girls? No, probably not even that, the seamstresses have bigger biceps than you! How the fuck are you gonna handle a gun if you can’t even handle your little baby dick, boy?”

Jaskier grits his teeth, fully aware of what will happen if he snipes back. The last time he did he ended up having to run twenty kilometers kitted out in full gear. He could hardly stand the next day. He swears, when he goes home and back to work at the factory, he’s never going to complain about his legs being sore ever again.

“Count louder, Private!”

“Twenty-four! Twenty-five! Twenty-six!–”

When Jaskier has finished all forty, Sergeant Drummond removes his boot and Jaskier stands up again, brushing off his knees. “Oh, we’ve got a pansy here, don’t we?” The Sergeant sneers and Jaskier straightens.

“Sir?”

“Think you’re too good for a little dirt on you? Huh?”

Jaskier gapes, he’s getting reprimanded for cleaning off the dust from his _knees?_ “I– No?”

“Are you contradicting me, maggot?”

 _“Maggot?”_ Jaskier can’t stop himself, scowling angrily even as a small voice at the back of his head snarls at him to stay silent, “Now see here–!”

“See what? All I see is a fucking maggot standing in front of me and not obeying their Drill Sergeant! Get outside, Pankratz, you’re gonna run the Killer until I tell you to stop! Get out of here!”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Jaskier growls before making an about face and stalking out of the barracks, making his way to the obstacle course where he’s kitted with a heavy pack, a standard helmet, and an unloaded rifle. It’s hours before he’s allowed to stop, covered in mud from the wire crawl and the pool beneath the monkey bars, his hands slipping with all the silt and filth covering his fingers. 

“Get to class, Pankratz!” The Sergeant blows his whistle at him and Jaskier gets up, resisting the urge to try and clean himself off by hand.

“Permission to shower, Sergeant?”

“Denied! Move your scrawny ass!”

Jaskier bites back a groan and sheds the gear before jogging towards the classrooms, already feeling the bruises beneath the drying mud on his body. He hates this, he wants to go home.

_October 29th, 1943_ _  
_ _Kaedwen_

_Jaskier,_

_It’s quiet without you home. I can hear the dripping of the shower in the night without your snores to cover it. I can hear the scurrying of mice in the walls without your singing to hide it. I can hear the arguing of the neighbors without your jokes to obscure it. I’ve been spending much of my time with Vesemir at the farm, the extra hours are helping me cover costs. I don’t want to spend the money you got from selling your ring, not unless I have to. I wish you were home._

_Love,  
_ _Your Wolf_

The apartment is too quiet without Jaskier. Geralt has too much time to think, becoming far more familiar with the sound of his own heartbeat than he’s comfortable with. The ticking of the clock on their mantle– broken in such a way that it runs fasts until the minute hand reaches the eleven and it slides back a half hour again– echoes from room to room. It follows him like the tolling of a bell, deafening in its silence until he feels like he’s going to scream.

He sends word to Vesemir, asking if his father would mind him staying for a time. And that’s how he finds himself at Morhen Farms, limping in the bitter morning from one stall to the next with a bucket of brushes on his arm. With a soft smile, he stops in front of the stall of a graying bay mare, age bowing her head but making her no less excited to see Geralt.

“Hey, Roach,” he murmurs, rubbing his hand down her nose and then under her chin to scratch the underside of her jaw. “It’s been a while, huh?”

Roach huffs at him, pushing her head down to pin his hand against her neck. He chuckles and leans forward to press his forehead against hers with a soft sigh, burying his fingers into her mane.

“I missed you, too. It’s expensive to commute out here, you know. And with mine and Jaskier’s income… Well, there just hasn’t been enough to make it. But now with him–” He can’t bring himself to say _gone._ Because he isn’t gone, he’s just… gone away. Out of reach. 

“It’s less expensive to live by yourself, I’ve learned. It doesn’t hurt that the money he’s sending back every week is more than he made in a month, it means I could afford the taxi all the way here and I’ll be staying for a little while. It’s too… it’s too quiet back home.”

“Never thought I’d hear you complain about things being too _quiet,”_ Lambert’s sharp voice cuts through the serenity of the stalls. Geralt bites back a groan as he straightens up, sighing instead and looking over at his brother.

“Good to see you, Lambert.” 

Lambert comes over and pulls him into a hug, clapping Geralt’s back heartily, “You too, pretty boy. Congrats on the marriage, by the way. It’s too bad none of us got to see it.”

“Had to make it quick,” Geralt grunts, automatically moving to spin the wedding band on his ring finger.

“Makes sense, Eskel said you were thinking about asking him to marry you anyway,” Lambert leans against the edge of the stall as Geralt steps into it and starts to brush down Roach, beginning with a stiff brush.

“Hmm. We’d talked about it a few times.”

“Shoulda done what me and Aiden did,” Lambert shrugs, glancing down at his own gold band, “Got hitched to get him a green card.”

“I didn’t know he was even eligible for the draft, Lambert. Kerack is a territory of Redania, how was I to know that meant he could be drafted?”

“But he knew?”

Geralt sighs, eyes focused on his task even as he reluctantly converses with Lambert. His younger brother pushes his patience on good days, and today didn’t start out as sunshine and daisies. “I think he suspected but didn’t want to think about it. Just hoped he’d get lucky or something.”

“The best people always have the most rotten kind of luck.”

Geralt nods in agreement, humming his assent as he falls silent. Fate never looks kindly on those who walk with destiny; and Jaskier ran at her side.

_November 30th, 1943_ _  
_ _Redania_

_My darling Geralt,_

_We leave for Ebbing in the morning. I haven’t had much chance to write before this, but I’ve cherished your letter every day and read it every night before bed by zippo light. We don’t have electric lanterns in the bunks, and they turn the overheads off at 10PM sharp. I’m the best sniper in my division, the 107th Infantry. I’m unsure of how I feel about it whenever I’m praised for how well I’ll be able to kill people. Luckily, we got snowfall today! It didn’t stick, as it’s far too warm still and the snow was wet, but it was pretty anyhow. Direct all further correspondence to the 107th Infantry, Ebbing._

_I love you,  
_ _Your Buttercup_

They’re woken up by the siren, as they are every morning, but Jaskier doesn’t jump. He just gets up as he does normally and changes into his fatigues. These ones are red camouflage, given to him upon his graduation from basic training two days before. He laces up his boots, tight around the ankles and loose around the calves, buttons up his shirt, and tucks his dog tags beneath the collar. Into the inside pocket of his jacket goes his photo of Geralt and letters he’s received so far, all tied into a bundle with twine.

Jaskier falls in line as the door slams open to the barracks, Sergeant Drummond stepping into the silent room. His boots echo across the cement, his hands clasped behind his back. “Today, you all ship out to the front. Ebbing awaits, rife with Nilfgaardians and goons lying in hiding to kill you! But you will not die, you will fight for your families, fight for Redania, and fight for the North!”

He cheers with the other men, as he’s supposed to, but his stomach is tight with anxiety as he marches in line with his fellow barracksmen to the trains that will ship them down to Ebbing. He’s given his full kit and handed a rifle with a scope as well as a box of ammunition to tuck into his munitions pouch. He’s then herded onto the train with the other men, shoulder to shoulder in rows of two as they’re guided into tightly packed seats. 

Jaskier’s seated next to a squirrely young man, maybe nineteen years old, who’s shaking like a leaf. He looks like he’s going to vomit, his green eyes watering and mouth pulled into a grimace with one hand placed on his stomach in a desperate plea for it to stay calm. Jaskier feels sympathetic, reaching over and clasping him on the shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, “What’s your name?”

“A-Ashwood,” the boy stammers, “And– and I don’t think so. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Where are you from, Ashwood?”

“Daevon,” Ashwood whispers, watching Jaskier closely as he takes deep breaths, “I’m from Daevon.”

“Daevon,” Jaskier parrots gently with a nod, “I’ve visited, once. A long time ago, my father and brothers and I all went to a banquet there.”

“Yeah? Where are you from? What’s, uh, what’s _your_ name?”

“I’m Jaskier and I’m from Kerack; a little town there called Lettenhove, actually.”

Ashwood smiles and nods, his expression still tight but his shoulders relaxing as he falls into easy conversation with Jaskier for the duration of the day, the boy falling asleep against Jaskier’s shoulder once the sun has disappeared behind the curve of the earth. The rumble of the train through his bones as he leans his head against the window keeps him awake, as though he could sleep anyway. The swinging lanterns of the train car are dim in the evening, reflecting dully on the fingerprint smudged glass.

Jaskier watches out the window as the shadowed landscape rolls by, the stars burning bright in the sky and the hills starkly cut out of the blue horizon. The train carries them away from the life they once knew; it rattles along the tracks and sways from side to side as they’re whisked away from the life they came to learn. Hurtling forward into the great unknown with a gun in hand and a helmet on head, not even given a chance to look back as the night sky looms overhead and they go deeper unto the breach.

There’s a sense of finality to it all. 

_December 12th, 1943  
_ _Kaedwen_

_Jaskier,_

_It brings me an odd sense of pride that you’re the best at something so dangerous. I often wish and pray to Melitele that you won’t need the skills they’re teaching you at your training, but I know logically they wouldn’t teach it to you if you didn’t require them. I’m glad you’ll be able to defend yourself, keep yourself alive even at the sacrifice of others. If that makes me selfish then I’m the most selfish man on the planet. We also got snow, but it is sticking here this far north. Vesemir had me help him move all the horses into the stables from the corrals. I hope you’re well._

_Love,  
_ _Your Wolf_

The rumble of an automobile engine cuts short as the vehicle pulls up in front of the farmhouse, the loud chatter of a child filling the quiet as Yennefer and Ciri arrive. Five minutes to eleven, just as they said they would. There’s a knock on the door and Eskel shouts, “Got it!” 

Geralt listens closely as he continues to wash dishes in the kitchen, Aiden being about as good at cooking as Jaskier is and all of their pans requiring a healthy amount of elbow grease and steel wool to clean now. The door creaks on old, unoiled hinges as Eskel opens it.

“Uncle Eskel!” Cirilla shrieks. Geralt hears Eskel grunt as he catches the tiny girl in his arms. He’s certain his brother swings her around to sit on his shoulders, towering over her kingdom. 

“Eskel,” Yennefer’s cool voice greets politely. Geralt can imagine the calm, commanding expression upon her face as her violet eyes watch his brother manhandle her daughter.

“Yennefer, it’s good to see you. You look great,” Eskel’s voice is much warmer, a smile in the lilt of his words, “I see you got an automobile!”

“Yes, I needed something to get me in and out of the city from our new house. Geralt told you we moved, I presume?”

“He did. Said you moved out to the countryside?”

Geralt finishes with the final pan and wipes his hands on a towel before grabbing his cane and walking out into the front room. Ciri is indeed perched upon Eskel’s tall shoulders while Yennefer smiles and converses with him. The little girl spots him first, a toothy grin splitting her lips, “Daddy!”

“Hey, little cub,” he grins back at her as he hobbles over and catches her as she jumps off of Eskel’s shoulders and into his arms. She burrows into his chest with a happy squeal, kicking her feet excitedly. “How have you been?”

“Super good, Daddy. Mama says we’re here to help decorate Vesemir’s house for Yule with you!”

“Yeah? Well, I appreciate that, honey.”

“Mhm,” she nods as Geralt perches her on his hip, swinging her legs happily, “She also said it’s ‘cuz you’re probably sad since Jaskier’s gone away to the army.”

“Did she now?” Geralt glances at Yennefer curiously, raising an eyebrow. She shrugs at him. She’s never been one to sugarcoat things for Ciri, firm in the belief that she’ll be a more well-adjusted child if she’s not withheld information. 

It isn’t until later, as Eskel and Ciri are hanging garland along the banisters, that Geralt is able to get Yennefer alone long enough to ask her questions, hiding their conversation under the guise of decorating the Yule tree.

“How much does she know about Jaskier and the war?” Geralt asks quietly, stringing together popcorn with a needle and thread. 

“Not the graphic details of it, of course,” Yennefer replies easily as she hangs glittering strings of tinsel from the piney boughs, “But she knows that there is one and that Jaskier didn’t want to go away but was asked to because he made a promise when he was younger.”

Geralt hums, pressing his lips together as he focuses on pushing the needle through the direct centers of the popped kernels.

“She knows you got married. She was very disappointed she didn’t get to attend the wedding.”

“We’re going to have a proper ceremony when Jaskier gets back.”

“If he gets back.”

He grits his teeth, his jaw tightening almost painfully as he forces away the fear that threatens to drown him. “He’s coming back, Yen.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer’s voice is sympathetic, “You and I both know Jaskier isn’t the most… hale man. He was thin as a willow last I saw him.”

“His newest job was going to fix that.”

“And the eating thing was fixed, too? You can’t build muscle without eating properly, Geralt.”

He sighs, letting the popcorn drop to his lap, “No. He still insisted that I get the most food and nothing I did or said could convince him. Although, he’s told me he’s getting three squares now, in the army.”

“Has he even graduated from boot camp?” Yennefer arches an eyebrow at him.

Geralt’s filled with a sort of indignant pride as he rushes to Jaskier’s defense, “He has. He’s been deployed to Ebbing already.”

“Ebbing?” Yennefer’s expression softens, the way someone’s face does before delivering terrible news. “Oh, Geralt.”

“What?” He frowns at her, trouble nagging at the edge of his thoughts. Yennefer’s a politician, she knows more about the war efforts of the North than he does.

“Ebbing is the front. They’re lambs being sent to the slaughter.”

_December 22nd, 1943  
_ _Ebbing_

_Happy Yule, Geralt!_

_There’s plenty of snow on the ground here in Ebbing, and it’s desperately cold. The mud sticks to our boots and the sleet and hail freeze to our cheeks but we’re all in high spirits, quite literally! Redania has provided us with a number of bottles of Est Est and while none of us are completely tossed, we’re all happily sozzled. My friend, Zoltan, even ran through the camp bare as a babe! He’s rather insane, and is actually from Nilfgaard, but he moved north long before the war and is a registered citizen of Novigrad. He chose to enlist out of pride for Redania and disdain for Nilfgaard, and I admire him for that. He keeps me sane out here, or as sane as a man who would be a berserker in another life can keep someone, and even wants to meet you when we return home._

_I love you,  
_ _Your Buttercup_

The bottles are popped loudly in the dining hall– which is really just a large tent in the center of camp– as men cheer wildly, already well on their way to drunk with the tin cups in hand never empty. Laughter roars and roils, merriments carried out beneath the garland strung around the tent and wreaths hung on every wall. The men pretended to be touched by the care shown to them by the Redanian government, but weren’t truly happy until the crates of Est Est were loaded off the supply caravan.

The 107th Infantry are in high spirits as the alcohol flows freely in a land barren of milk and honey. The warfront has been hard, days filled with frigid temperatures and frozen toes, boots sloshing and squishing. There’s never a second to be dry as the ice freezes and melts over and over again. Skin is rubbed raw, heels are blistered to bleeding, eyes are squinted permanently from prolonged snow blindness– but none of that matters as the warmth in their bellies blazons into an inferno of yuletide cheer.

“Zoltan, surely you’ve got a lass back home!” Artur calls out from across the table. Zoltan, seated beside Jaskier, laughs raucously as he tips back his mug and drains the last dregs of his wine. His cup is only empty for a few moments before a nurse dressed as an RSO girl breezes by and refills his mug.

“Not just one lass, I’ve three!”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows as he swirls the wine in his cup, “How do you keep them all straight, man?”

“I could never, they’re all about as straight as the Skelligan coast,” Zoltan grins, “Queers, the lot of them. Then again, so’s I!”

Jaskier laughs with everyone else, all of them making a toast to Zoltan’s harem of women by lifting their mugs and slamming the tin on the table twice before knocking back their drinks. “What about you, Artur?” Jaskier asks, “Got anybody special?”

“Just my ma,” he shakes his head, his curly red hair bouncing with the motion, “Gods bless her soul. She’s not dead, she just needs the divine intervention!”

Another roar of laughter followed by a toast. There’s music playing over the speakers from the radio, a delightfully festive tune sung by Ol’ Blue Eyes himself. Jaskier’s never cared much for Sinatra, but he has to admit the man’s handsome and talented.

“Jaskier? What about you?” Zoltan nudges him with his shoulder. 

Jaskier blinks and looks over, his cheeks turning redder than the alcohol already has them flushed as he ducks his head, “Oh, you know.”

“Come off it, tell us! You think we ain’t seen that wedding band on your tags?”

“Okay! Okay!” He laughs and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out the tied bundle of letters that’s grown since he’s been deployed. It almost doesn’t fit in his pocket anymore. “My husband is back home.”

Zoltan gets in close, shoving his bearded face against Jaskier’s cheek to peer at the photo as Jaskier unfolds it. He gives a low, impressed whistle, “How’d you land a dreamboat like that?”

“I ask myself the same thing every day.”

“When’d you get married?” Artur asks, “You don’t carry yourself with the arrogance of a married man.”

Jaskier flushes again, rubbing the back of his neck before dropping his hand to the tags under this shirt, “Just before I was sent out here to the boondocks. When I got drafted he asked me to marry him.”

“That’s some _romance_ shit!” Zoltan grins and jostles Jaskier, throwing an arm around the taller man’s shoulders, “What’s his name, lad?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier looks down at the photograph again, the black and white ink rubbing away along the crease from him unfolding it so frequently. Geralt’s small smile looks back at him, and Jaskier can almost imagine he’s said something amusing to tease that little smug look out of his husband. “His name is Geralt.”

“A strong name for a strong man!” Zoltan nods and knocks back the rest of his wine again. His face is a ruddy purple from the booze and he’s sweating in the close quarters, “Now, who wants to see me flash the Major?”

_January 4th, 1944  
_ _Kaedwen_

_Jaskier,_

_We’ve heard news that the war effort is going well, is this true? I know our letters are read and censored by Redania, but I can’t not inquire as to the state of affairs. I’ve also heard rumors of terrible things happening in Ebbing, and fear only for your safety. And, I suppose, also Zoltan’s. He sounds like a riot, and I’d like to meet him as well if only to shake his hand and thank him for keeping you company. Ciri turned 6 yesterday, and I got to spend the day with her and Yennefer. It was nice. You would have loved it. I’ll tell you all about it when you get home, I promise._

_Love,  
_ _Your Wolf_

“I hear the North is gaining more ground in Ebbing,” Yennefer mentions to him as they watch Ciri run around a playground ringed with plastic animals. They’ve spent the day at the zoo, visiting the animal enclosures and allowing Ciri to see everything from the bengal tigers of the far east to the polar bears of the far north. 

“I continue to receive letters from Jaskier, so he isn’t dead.” _Yet,_ goes unspoken, thundering silently between them. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Yennefer nods. Her hair is done up in victory rolls today, the dark locks smoothed by mousse and teased into place, “I’ve never disliked the man, you know that, right?”

“I do. He’s difficult to come to like, though, I recognize that.”

“Not everyone agrees with you there,” Yennefer muses, “By textbook definition, Jaskier is very likable. Just not usually to people like us.”

People like us. Jaded, angry, stiff people. Someone that a person might say has a stick up their ass because they’re stubborn and gruff, or overly blunt in Yennefer’s case. Geralt doesn’t want to be like that, not anymore. Not since Jaskier has shown him how much brighter the world is when not peered at through a cynical lens.

“Get on with it.”

“I just was– nevermind,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, “Anyway, the war front is allegedly nearing the southern border of Ebbing; before we know it, the North will have liberated them from Nilfgaard.”

Geralt glances over at her, not allowing himself to hope that Jaskier will be home already, barely even a quarter of a year spent away, “So you think the soldiers will be coming home soon?”

Yennefer purses her lips in the way that indicates she’s debating easing the blow of bad news, “I’m not sure. There’s still the eastern front to consider. Jaskier being in Ebbing means he’s been on the northern front. They probably won’t send the boys home until the war is finished, Geralt.”

Geralt is quiet for a while, deep in thought. He misses Jaskier desperately, and would do anything to have him back again, truthfully; even if that meant packing up and heading to the war front himself to win this war single-handedly. And isn’t that a thought? He can’t imagine ever being the kind of man to be able to turn the tide of battle, he’s barely ever won a fight, let alone wield a weapon.

“I asked him, you know. In my last letter. How the war is doing.”

Yennefer looks over in surprise, “Your correspondence is censored, do you think you’re going to actually get a truthful response?”

“No,” Geralt shakes his head with a sad sigh, watching Ciri laugh and play, “I don’t think war lends itself to anything more than half truths. Pretty lies to make people support death and destruction.”

She reaches over and squeezes Geralt’s shoulder kindly, “He’ll come back, Geralt.”

Geralt grunts, settling back into the bench they’re seated on, “But will he come back as Jaskier, is the question.”

“I don’t know.”

_February 2nd, 1944  
_ _Ebbing_

_My lovely Geralt,_

_The war effort is going swimmingly. Aside from the mud that’s permanently embedded beneath my fingernails, and the grit that’s always in my eyes, I haven’t had much reason to complain. Despite my doing so extensively in my previous letters. I do hope you told Cirilla a happy birthday from me, gods know I love that little girl as though she were my own. Am I a little jealous of Yennefer’s ability to bear children? Perhaps. Although I imagine having a uterus is quite bothersome, what with it bleeding every month. From what Essi and Priscilla have told me, I prefer the curious rise of my cock at inopportune times. Embarrassment is far preferable to 480 weeks of pain in one lifetime. I’ve heard rumors that we’ll be coming home soon!_

_I love you,  
_ _Your Buttercup_

Jaskier is miserable.

They’ve been trekking through the Ebbing countryside for two weeks now, knee deep in mud and sludge as they keep to the swampland that’s vile enough to rival Velen. It reeks of decay, he hasn’t been warm below the belt in days, and he’s pretty sure he’s got fucking trenchfoot. If it isn’t raining, it’s snowing. If it isn’t snowing, it’s sleeting. If it isn’t sleeting, it’s hailing. There’s no relief from the weather, no shelter from the cold, no barricade from the wet. He’s never complaining to Geralt about them being stuck out in a rainstorm ever again, holy _shit._

His boots squelch through the muck as they march in a line along the riverbed; backs screaming, bent double beneath the weight of their packs and hiding amidst the reeds. Why Jaskier’s troop couldn’t be sent to the fucking front via a truck, he doesn’t know, and because of it they’re going to arrive at the trenches already half dead and then be expected to fight a damn war. Jaskier watches as a mysterious something slides into the top of his boot, even though he’s got the laces tight around his calves to try and create _any_ sort of barrier between his legs and the unknown. 

There’s a sharp pain under his boot and he hisses extensive curses, his vocabulary having expanded since being in the army. He stops to reach into his boot and the man behind him bumps into him, sending Jaskier falling forward into the mud. He narrowly misses knocking over Zoltan as well as his hands sinks into the silt up to his elbows, sharp rocks hidden in the myre that squishes between his fingers and soaks his shirt. “For _fuck’s_ sake,” Jaskier groans softly. He’s not allowed to make too much noise, they’re behind enemy lines.

“Get _up,_ Jaskier,” Artur snarls, hauling him back to his feet with a hand under his arm, “We need to keep moving!”

“Fuck off, Art,” Jaskier huffs as he wipes his hands off on the slightly-less-soiled part of his jacket.

Artur opens his mouth to reply when a shot rings out. Artur drops to the ground, his face blown away. Artur’s blood and brains cover Jaskier.

“ACTIVE FIRE! DROP AND CRAWL, BOYS!” Sergeant Rook hollers. Zoltan grabs Jaskier by the back of the neck and shoves him face first into the mud.

“Get down, lad!” Zoltan commands. Jaskier’s wide eyes rip away from Artur’s mangled face to focus on his friend. “Move!”

Jaskier nods frantically, buckling the strap of his helmet as he starts crawling after Zoltan. He doesn’t care about the mud anymore, doesn’t care about the silt and mysterious creatures filling his clothing. He needs to _live._

His tags catch on something but he can’t be bothered to grab them as they rip away from his neck. He can get a new wedding band, he can’t get another life. _Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,_ Jaskier chants over and over again as he continues to writhe through the muck. Artur’s blood drips down his face like tears. Maybe they are tears. His eyes are burning.

“MUSTARD! MASKS ON!”

The smoking canister is only a scant two hundred meters away. Jaskier rips his gas mask off of his pack and slots it over his face. The seal doesn’t properly close against his skin, dirt and filth blocking it. The world is in sepia, the edges of it dulled by the goggles, but Jaskier’s heart doesn’t slow. It’s jackhammering against his jaw, caught up in his throat so tightly he can hardly breathe. 

“ENEMY SIGHTED! OPEN FIRE!”

Jaskier looks up over the reeds. His eyes flicker across the scenery. He flicks off the safety on his rifle, lifting it to his shoulder. Peering down the sight, he spots the black helmet of Nilfgaard. 

He fires.

They fire back.

The _ratta tatta tatta_ of warfare fills the air, deafening in its ubiquity. Everywhere around him: guns blazing, grenades exploding, dirt and blood and mud and bone bursting into the air in a hellish fireworks display. Jaskier feels a sense of frantic calm, his heart fit to jump out of his chest even as his breath remains calm now and his hands steady. The barrel of his rifle is hot, smoke curling from the tip, and the trigger is cold and hard beneath his calloused finger.

He pulls the trigger again and again and again.

He sees blood spray in an arc as one of his bullets strikes directly between a man’s eyes. Another rips through a jugular. Another shatters the shell of a grenade. Jaskier has one eye closed, peering through the scope attached to his rifle and lining up the enemies in the crosshairs.

Stars burst behind his eyes, his helmet knocked from his head. The world flips and twirls, throwing his stomach into his throat. Vomit spills from his lips onto the ground beneath him. A high pitched whine rings in his ears.

“...here, lad! Jaskier! _Jaskier!_ Speak to me!” 

Jaskier’s being shaken, marbles rattling around in his skull and scrambling his brains. His head throbs. His chest hurts something fierce, too. He groans, the bite of iron touching his tongue.

“Stay with me, Jaskier, you bastard!” Zoltan’s voice filters through the ringing. Jaskier peels his eyes open. He’s been turned on his back, the sky spinning above him. His stomach lurches again. 

The gun fire ceases.

“LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!”

Zoltan’s hands continue to roam Jaskier’s chest, ripping open Jaskier’s jacket and hauling his own pack around to grab the roll of bandages. Jaskier howls as the pain in his chest _burns,_ intensifying into an inferno that throbs with each painful beat of his heart.

“Shush! Shh, shh, shh– Jaskier, shut the fuck up! Shut–”

“You! Hands behind your head!”

“Stay with me, Jaskier,” Zoltan ignores the command from the beetleback, keeping his hands pressed over Jaskier’s chest, “Stay with me. What about Geralt, huh? Your Geralt? You gotta stay here so you can make it home to him, yeah?”

“G...eralt?”

“Yeah, _yeah,_ Geralt, lad. Just stay– Get your hands off of me! Don’t you know a dying man when you see one? I’m saving him– fuck!” Zoltan’s ripped away, the pressure on his chest easing and warmth flooding his torso. “Jaskier, just stay awake! Stay awa–!”

Jaskier’s vision fades even as he tries to track Zoltan. Hands grab him as well. 

The world goes black.

_February 20th, 1944  
_ _Redania_

_To Mr. Geralt Vesson,_

_We regret to inform you that your spouse, Julian Alfred Pankratz, has been captured by enemy forces and is currently a prisoner of war. We will endeavor to do everything we can to ensure his safe return home. In the meantime, you will continue to receive relief in his name. We thank you for your dedication to our soldiers._

_RDMA  
_ _Redanian Department of Military Affairs_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	3. Prisoner of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter literally 2k longer than both previous ones? Maybe. Please note the updated tags.
> 
> Thank you to [ghostinthelibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary) for beta-ing!
> 
> CW for this chapter: Non-Consensual Tattooing, one mention of needles, allusions/parallels to the Holocaust, whipping, torture

Everything hurts.

He’s drowning, flailing in a wine dark sea of agony as he kicks and pulls at the water rushing around him. Into his mouth, his lungs, his  _ blood _ the water floods and floods, making him heavier, slower. His clothing drags him down. Jaskier coughs and heaves, throat burning, chest aching.

_ “Come on, Jaskier, don’t give up yet.” _

Zoltan? His head whips around, sending a spray of water from his hair splattering against the swell building in front of him. Salt gurgles in his throat. The wave towers over him. It crashes down.

It’s peaceful, under the surface. Dark, sure, but peaceful. All he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears. He opens his eyes to a blue eternity.

_ “Geralt’s waiting for you, lad.” _

Geralt? Who’s…

Bleached white hair, patchy pale skin, eyes so hazel they’re gold flash before Jaskier; a phantom in the darkness. His breath catches (how is he breathing?) and tears spill down his cheeks– ( _ where is he, why can’t he see anything?) _

_ Geralt, _ how could Jaskier have forgotten his husband? The love of his life? The man he would live and die for? 

Who he will live for.

Jaskier looks for the faint light of the surface, finding the beams of sunlight rippling through the sea below his feet (when did he turn upside down?). He turns himself over– ignoring the aching of his chest, the fire in his legs, the burning of his eyes– and rips his boots off, letting them sink to the bottom of the sea. They hit the invisible floor with a deafening  _ boom _ that rips through the water. 

Levied from the heavy pull of his boots, Jaskier kicks at the water and follows the path of his breath. The surface seems to draw farther and farther away, the distance stretching into infinity. Jaskier’s heart is thundering, pounding at his throbbing ribs, trying desperately to burst free of his chest and escape into the unknown. 

He  _ won’t _ die. He can’t. He promised Geralt he’d come back. He wants more nights of quiet togetherness, mornings started with tender kisses and roaming hands. He wants more music crackling on the radio, Geralt’s arms around him as they slowly dance around their tiny kitchen. Jaskier wants and wants and  _ wants _ and it’s that burning  _ desire,  _ that desperate  _ need, _ that fuels his screaming legs.

Or is it him whose screaming?

He bursts through the surface, gasping for breath as the sun blinds him overhead. There’s a ringing in his ears, a dull whine that pierces through his waterlogged thoughts and echoes within his skull. Everything is blurry, his vision double and spinning around him. The water laps loudly at his face. He lifts his hands to cover his ears and starts to sink again.

With a sob, he puts his arms back in the water. The ringing gets louder, the sunlight intensifying in his eyes. The water glitters: beautiful, blinding. His head pounds. Jaskier’s chest burns and throbs as he wails, coughing with each mouthful of salt that tries to fill his lungs. It’s too much  _ too much _ and he wants to  _ die, _ to let it end, get it over with. But he can’t. He can’t, he can’t,  _ he can’t. _

Geralt’s waiting for him.

Jaskier screams.

“Jaskier– Jaskier! Calm down, lad!” Zoltan’s voice is loud and compounding on the cacophony of noise noise  _ noise. _ Jaskier wails and writhes, trying to get away, eyes screwed up tight. There’s no light behind his eyelids but he can’t risk it.

Zoltan’s hands are warm, almost burning, on his skin, “You’re going to hurt yourself, Jaskier! Relax! Cool it, cool it.” His friend’s voice eases into a quiet murmur; and Jaskier finds himself straining to hear, to keep listening. “You’re okay, I’m here, lad.”

“Z–” Jaskier shudders, his back cold against the hard surface he’s laying on, “Zoltan?” His voice is  _ ruined, _ ragged and rough like he’s gargled a mouthful of glass.

“It’s me. You need to stay calm, boy, or you’re going to ruin all my hard work.”

Jaskier’s every breath hurts, but he continues to draw them in. He can’t stop breathing. In. Out. In. Out. “Is– th-the light, is it…”

“It’s dark in here, you can open your eyes,” Zoltan smooths his rough palm across Jaskier’s burning forehead, brushing his hair back from his eyes.

Jaskier swallows and winces, his dry throat scraping and scratching. Nerves shiver his arms, or is it fever? He feels hot and cold, shivering and shaking and miserable. Jaskier peels his eyes open, the crust along his eyelashes breaking as he blinks into the darkness. The only light comes from a tiny window high above them, the gray blue hue of morning coloring the ceiling. 

“Where are we?” Jaskier rasps, trying to turn his head and grunting as it makes his skull throb.

“Easy now,” Zoltan steadies his head, rubbing his thumbs over Jaskier’s temples, “You were badly hurt, and have an infection to boot. I couldn’t treat you until we were here.”

“Zoltan, where is  _ here?” _

His friend sighs, shoulders slumping as his brown eyes glance at the wall. Jaskier follows his gaze, heart stuttering and stomach dropping into his feet. Bars.

“We’re in Nilfgaard.”

_ “Nilfgaard? _ H-how–”

“We were ambushed. Jaskier, it’s all a  _ lie,” _ Zoltan sounds anguished, “It’s all a lie. The war is going horribly, the front doesn’t exist. We  _ were _ the front.”

“We were– but how can that be possible? We weren’t fighting anyone we were–”

“We were a distraction.”

Jaskier gapes up at him, “A  _ distraction?” _ How could this be? Were they really nothing more than cattle for a wolf to hide amongst? “How do you know all this?”

“You’ve been out for almost a week, lad,” Zoltan pats his cheek lightly, “They– the Nilfgaardians that is– they’ve been interrogating our boys. Rook broke after four days. Everyone could hear him.”

“I don’t blame him,” Jaskier whispers, “Zoltan, are they–”

“Gone,” Zoltan’s voice is thick and heavy, “All gone. Either dead or shipped off somewhere else. I was only allowed to stay because you hadn’t died yet.”

_ Hadn’t died yet. _ That was the only thing keeping Zoltan here, somewhat safe, un-interrogated. Jaskier doesn’t even know what  _ happened, _ not really; he assumes he’s injured– Zoltan did say he has an infection so that must be what the tightness in his chest is from– and they’ve been captured, clearly. Their guns are gone, packs and armor taken… 

Jaskier’s hand flies to his chest, wincing as the throb intensifies. He shoves his fingers along his shirt, feeling for his jacket. His breathing picks up and he shoves himself upright, his world tilting on its axis.

“Whoa, what are you doing, lad?” Zoltan looks alarmed, steadying Jaskier’s shoulders.

“My letters,” Jaskier gasps, “My– my letters from Geralt. My photograph of him. Where are they?”

Zoltan presses his lips together, face crumpling into a sympathetic frown, “They took all our effects, Jaskier. Left us nothing but our shirts and pants.” Sure enough, Zoltan is also just in his now off-white tee shirt and pants; even his boots are gone. 

Jaskier shakes his head, ignoring the way the motion makes it spin and his stomach roll, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no…” He moans, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, “No, I can’t have lost him. No, please, Zoltan, I  _ can’t.” _

“Jaskier– Jaskier! You haven’t lost him, boy, he’s still out there!” Zoltan straddles Jaskier’s legs and grabs his shoulders, shaking him firmly. Jaskier’s hazy eyes snap up to Zoltan’s darker ones. “He’s still out there, back home at his farm. You said he lives on a farm right now, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah. He’s back there on his farm and you’re going to get through this, right? You’re gonna get back to him.”

Jaskier whimpers, eyes filling with tears. “I want to go home,” he whispers, broken, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I know, Jaskier, I know,” Zoltan pulls him into a firm embrace, “Shh, shh… Buck up, lad, you don’t want them to see you cry.”

Jaskier swallows thickly and nods, blinking back the burn of his eyes and pursing his lips as he drags each shuddering breath in through his nose. He needs to stay strong, he can’t let the Nilfgaardians see him as weak. Not because he cares what they think, but because they could kill him if they don’t think he’s worth keeping around. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he croaks, sniffling a bit, “Thanks, Zoltan.”

His friend nods and they remain in their embrace a while longer before settling back down again to wait. Now that he’s awake, he can hear the dripping of water somewhere, echoing through the holding cells.  _ Ploink… ploink… ploink… _ If he couldn’t hear the sounds of Zoltan’s breathing in the dark beside him, he thinks he’d go insane. Jaskier can’t be alone, he  _ can’t, _ he’s never been truly alone a day in his life. 

He doesn’t want to find out what would happen if he was.

They’re left on their own, speaking in soft voices, terrified of what could emerge from the unfamiliar darkness if they’re too noisy. Even sotto voce, their words bounce off the hidden walls, echoing down a hallway they see no end of. Time becomes meaningless, hours melting together into the single beam of sunlight high above them as it traverses the floor and crawls up the wall, colors blurring until the burning orange becomes a dim blue once again.

“No food today,” Zoltan murmurs, Jaskier’s stomach gurgling and cramping in response. He wants to ask how often they’re fed, what they’re given to drink; but something tells him he doesn’t want to know.

The sound of a door swinging on squealing hinges blasts through the quiet like a bomb, both Jaskier and Zoltan flinching. Sharp footsteps thump down the concrete hall, Jaskier’s heart fluttering so fast he can hardly feel it anymore. Zoltan’s fingers grab Jaskier’s wrist, an anchor in the sea that threatens to drag him back under again.

“Good evening.” The man that stops in front of their cell is carrying a lantern, his pale face thrown into harsh contrast with the shadow from his long nose and heavy brow. He has piercing gray eyes and wears an officer’s uniform, black and stern. 

Jaskier and Zoltan remain silent.

The officer sighs and rolls his eyes, “My name is General Hedgetz, I am the general of the battalion that aided in your capture and I will be overseeing your interrogation.  _ Yes, _ Mr. Chivay, you will be interrogated as well, your friend is no longer  _ actively _ dying so your presence is no longer required at his side.”

Zoltan shuts his mouth and glares at Hedgetz– if looks could kill– as he lifts his chin defiantly, “You’re a fucking disease, a parasite upon the great country of Nilfgaard. You and your little emperor, both. Why, if I could get my hands on that–”

“I’d watch my tongue if I were you, Mr. Chivay,” Hedgetz’s words are clipped with the thick accent of Nilfgaard, the intonation of someone to whom Common is unfamiliar, “After all, you are not the one carrying a gun, hm?”

Zoltan grumbles, a low sound that sounds nearly akin to the growl of a tiger, but remains otherwise silent. Jaskier refuses to take his eyes away from the threat directly in front of them, fingernails digging into his palms as Hedgetz unlocks the cell and two soldiers enter. Zoltan jumps to his feet, backing away against the wall.

“I won’t let you take me! You’re not getting a fucking word from me, you rank, flesh-creeping proof of a failed test tube experiment!”

“Mr. Chivay, please calm yourself,” Hedgetz sounds bored as the soldiers grab Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier shouts and tries to pull away, but the twisting of his torso punches the air from his lungs and leaves him wheezing as he feels something tear and heat flood his skin. “We aren’t here for you.”

“Oi! Hey, you let him go! He’s still injured! Infected! Leave him alone!” Zoltan rushes forward. One of the soldiers brings up their rifle, the end of it colliding solidly with Zoltan’s head. The dull thunk of his skull makes Jaskier’s heart stop.

“Zoltan! Leave him alone!” Jaskier writhes again, trying to break free of the tight grip of the other soldier. “I swear to all the fucking gods if he’s fucking dead I’m going to rip your heads from your bodies and shove them so far up your filthy fucking asses you’ll be able to taste your own spleen!”

Hedgetz says something in Nilfgaardian to the soldiers and they begin to drag Jaskier away. He screams and kicks, iron touching his tongue as a crimson rose blooms upon his breast. His head spins, his breathing labored, but still he fights back; even just to vaguely inconvenience the soldiers. Geralt’s always said he’s difficult when he doesn’t want to do something, so he’s going to make life hell on these beetlebacks.

He’s slammed down into a chair, irons slapped across his wrists as he pulls against them. The edges of his vision are darkening, throbbing in time with his heart, but still he snarls and yanks on his bindings. The rough hewn metal cuts into his wrists, burning as the skin is instantly rubbed raw.

Hedgetz steps into the room, now accompanied with a woman. She’s dressed in a tight black shirt and blouse, her silvery blond hair pulled back into a severe bun. She has a long, hooked nose and tight jaw, and her thin lips pull down into a frown as she looks at Jaskier.

“I don’t believe I know your name,” Hedgetz says conversationally to Jaskier, “Mr. Chivay refused to indulge us and your tags were missing upon your capture. Very clever, sir, I must say. But what can we call you?”

“Go to hell.”

Hedgetz blinks and smiles a cruel grin, “I’m afraid I’ve already been. As have you, the front is cruel, is it not? Now, your name please, sir.”

Jaskier spits a glob of bloody saliva at him, nearly hitting Hedgetz if the man was half a foot closer. “Go fuck your whore mother!”

“If you could kindly leave my mother out of this, Mr. Doe, it would be appreciated.” Hedgetz looks unphased by Jaskier’s insults, which fuels the raging fire burning in his stomach. “Mr. Doe, this is Mistress Sabrina Glevissig. Miss Glevissig, this is Mr. John Doe.”

Glevissig hums and walks to the table pressed up against the wall, medical tools spread out across it.

“Miss Glevissig is a specialist in interrogations,” Hedgetz explains, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, “we already know everything from your sergeant, but we want to make sure you don’t have any secret knowledge tucked away inside your little mind.”

Jaskier’s snarling front almost instantly drops the moment Glevissig turns around wielding a wicked looking scalpel. His pride isn’t worth dying for. “I– that’s really– is the knife really necessary?”

“We’ve found that people don’t quite remember everything when just answering our questions,” Glevissig’s voice is free of the Nilfgaardian accent, laden instead with the same Keracki one Jaskier himself has. The betrayal that shoots through him, that strikes his heart like the piercing head of a flown arrow, is almost more than he can bear.

“You fucking traitor! Keracki, I see you!” Jaskier sneers, “You would betray your own country like this, you fucking two-faced waste of space?”

Glevissig sighs as she starts to approach, “I find I disagree with Redanian politics. Now, hold still; this will only hurt a lot.”

Jaskier spends hours screaming. At first, he’s hurling insults: telling them to piss off, calling them flagitious buttock-rimming excrement stains, and being all around insufferable in only the way he can be. He answers their questions, he sees no reason not to after learning of Rook’s breaking– and he’d rather not follow the same path– but still he’s punished. The scalpel burns over his skin, acids and salts poured into the wounds, stripes of blood painting his skin. 

His insults turn to begging, though– pleas for his life, for relief, for mercy– as Glevissig cuts into him again and again and again. Knives that flay his flesh, needles that inject a poison that burns his veins and makes him cry crimson tears, water forced into his nose and throat through a cloth pulled taut across his face. It isn’t until he’s on the verge of death (his vision all but gone, the world gray and colorless, his breaths coming thin and gasping as he shivers violently) that they stop.

They converse in Nilfgaardian for a few minutes as Jaskier’s head hangs loose, his chin tucked against his chest. He can barely feel it. Their voices are strange and distorted, echoing in a chamber far too small, and he thinks someone talks to him but he can’t be sure. There are hands on him, his oozing wrists released from his bindings. 

Jaskier blinks and he’s in an all white room, a doctor looming over him. 

Jaskier blinks and the room is dark, screams echoing down the corridor. They sound like Zoltan’s.

Jaskier blinks and he’s on the floor of a rocking train, people sitting around him with their knees forming a protective barrier. His head is in someone’s lap, fingers running over his hair and scratching across his scalp. He’s looking up at the underside of a bearded jaw, Zoltan’s familiar nose sticking out over the whiskers, and Jaskier sighs in relief.

“You awake?” Zoltan looks down at him and Jaskier’s eyes widen. Zoltan’s face is beaten to hell, one eye swollen completely shut and the other halfway there. Blood is dried into his beard and his hair has been shorn completely off the top of his head.

“Zoltan… what–?”

“Interrogation, and then prep for transport,” Zoltan replies bitterly, “I’m okay. They got you a lot worse.”

Jaskier glances away, eyes darting around the cramped train car. The rattling of the tracks beneath the wheels is almost deafening, every bump and jolt able to be felt through the thin wooden floor. Everyone sitting or standing is wearing the same blue clothing– an ill fitting smock and long pants– and has their hair buzzed off. Jaskier slowly reaches up to his own head, finding his hair has suffered the same fate.

“Transport?” He rasps, his throat dry and aching from the hours of screaming without water, “Where are we going?”

Zoltan’s face is grim as he quietly replies, “Winneburg.”

Jaskier’s heart turns to stone, plummeting down into his navel as his throat immediately tightens. Winneburg is where nightmares are born, where prisoners of Nilfgaard are taken to be tortured and worked to death. Jaskier heard nothing but horrors in his classes when learning about the Nilfgaardian military and attacks. 

“No one leaves Winneburg,” Jaskier whispers.

Zoltan doesn’t reply and Jaskier doesn’t speak again, spending the time on the train staring at the ceiling as the car sways along the tracks. No one says a word, unwilling to lose someone else in newfound friends after being ripped away from their families. Jaskier understands the appeal of anonymity while looking into the eyes of the gods, the weight of his sins laid upon his shoulders like a tawdry cloak, and standing at the threshold of Valhalla.

The sun has walked alongside the somber train, watching it with its indifferent gaze, until it has dipped behind the horizon and risen again. Only then does the train slow to a jolting halt, train cars colliding together with a loud series of organized crashing. Zoltan rises to his feet, helping Jaskier up as well and slinging Jaskier’s arm around his shoulder. 

They can hear the noisy rasping of doors sliding open one by one, the barking of soldiers– muffled by their own walls– and the deafening silence of the prisoners. Jaskier’s breath is shaking with each painful pass through his parted lips, hands trembling as he clutches at Zoltan. His friend squeezes his shoulder, Zoltan’s fingers bruising in their grip, but Jaskier doesn’t care; he’s terrified. 

The door to their car unlocks and slides open, a single beetleback shouting at them to get off and line up by height and age group, and Jaskier almost laughs as a wave of hysteria hits him; at least, until he sees the dozen other Nilfgaardian soldiers with their guns raised and aimed at them as they offboard. Jaskier swallows thickly as Zoltan leaves him to stand in the shorter section of his age range, giving him a firm pat on the back on the way and leaving him swaying.

“You, what’s wrong with you?” The beetleback demands as he stops in front of Jaskier.

Jaskier blinks, trying to clear the black spots from his vision, “I was… interrogated.”

The Nilfgaardian purses his lips and calls over another one, this man wearing the regalia of an officer. “This man is unfit to work.”

“Then shoot him or put him to work anyway and he’ll die sooner,” the officer shrugs, looking Jaskier up and down, “Who knows? Maybe he’ll recover.”

“Yes, sir,” the Nilfgaardian looks at Jaskier again and then raises his gun, flicking off the safety. Jaskier’s heart beats wildly in his chest, his breathing coming short and fast; he’s not ready to die! He’s not ready to give up hope, to leave Geralt, to accept that he’s not going home. Jaskier feels lightheaded, his knees weak and wobbling. The beetleback puts his finger on the trigger.

A shout draws his attention as one of the other prisoners, a young woman, tries to use the distraction to make her escape. It’s an admirable attempt, really, if there weren’t a dozen other soldiers standing guard. Jaskier is forgotten as the soldier steps back. One of them fires and the woman drops to the ground with a strangled scream.

The soldiers grab her and drag her to the center of the train, holding her up between them as her leg gushes blood. Her kneecap is ruined, bone visible through the gleam of crimson. The officer looks unimpressed as he approaches and withdraws a pistol.

“This is what will happen to all of you if you disobey,” the officer announces. The woman is wailing and crying for mercy.

He pulls the trigger.

Her sobs stop.

Jaskier feels ugly relief. He’s filthy with the gratitude he has for her death deterring his own. How could he feel this way about another human person? He didn’t even  _ know _ her. Maybe she had children, maybe her family was waiting for her to come home again. Maybe she has her own Geralt. He’ll never know. Her brains were splattered across the dirt and Jaskier is left standing as the horrible survivor.

He’s marched, in an adrenaline fueled haze, through the camp with the other young adults. In groups of ten, they’re sent through a series of doors where they’re told to strip off their clothing to then be hosed down by a  _ frigid _ blast of water, and then put their clothes back on again. No one is caring about being modest, not anymore, not in the face of their deaths. They’re given tattoos, the image of a black sun printed into their skin with a series of numbers beneath it. They then are guided to a barracks-style building filled with bunks, a simple wooden frame all that’s provided for bedding. 

“You will be put to work in the afternoon after we have processed all of you,” a soldier tells them before the door slams shut. The lighting is meager, only thin beams of dusty sunlight passing through the open slats of the roof, and people slowly shuffle to claim beds. Jaskier just sits down on the nearest bunk, hunching his shoulders and bowing his head. His body hurts: his back is throbbing from laying on the hard floor, his chest is aching from his still healing gunshot wound, his head is pounding as the adrenaline leaves him and he’s left standing at the gaping precipice of despair… He almost wants to say there’s no point anymore, there’s nothing left for him. 

No one leaves Winneburg. Why would he be different?

Folks murmur to each other in low voices, someone is sobbing quietly, and Jaskier sits silently as he waits. He misses Geralt–  _ fuck, _ does he miss Geralt– he misses quiet mornings and tender touches, he misses Geralt’s laugh and smile, he even misses getting yelled at for being obnoxious because it would mean he’s at home and not here. He wishes he still had Geralt’s letters, had his photograph, had his dog tags with his wedding band on the chain. 

Jaskier has nothing, has no one. Not even Zoltan; his friend was assigned to a different bunk. Jaskier’s group is primarily women or thin, scrawny men, and if it were any other situation he’d complain about being lumped in with the “weak”; and it’s that thought that tips him over into hysteria. Laughter bubbles up from his stomach, his arms wrapped around his middle as he doubles over with devastated glee.

He laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs.

And cries.

Tears drip down his face, his breath gone and chest tight and pounding as he hiccups through sobs pressed into his knees. He wants Geralt. He wants his shitty apartment. He wants and wants and  _ wants,  _ and has wanted since he was forced to leave, but now he’s desperate for it. Desperate for the warmth of their bed, desperate for the dripping faucet in the bathroom, desperate for the noise of early morning pedestrians on their way to work and waking him up far too early for his afternoon shifts. 

He wants to go home.

The days are spent being awoken by a siren. So similar is it to boot camp that Jaskier, at first, keeps anticipating his drill sergeant to walk in and start calling them all maggots. But soon it changes to the dread of beetlebacks coming in to degrade them, throw food at them, prod them with the tips of their guns just to watch them dance away and then punish them for flinching. It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to get sick of it.

He’s never been someone to just lie down and take something, even in bed he’s a brat, so after only a month Jaskier is fed up. He’s fed up with the siren, fed up with the rotting food, fed up with the humiliation, fed up with the work. He survived being shot, being infected, being a part of this godsforsaken war, only to end up here? Performing backbreaking labor in the freezing spring cold digging trenches or farming or fixing boots or hauling timber or any number of things that leave him miserable and aching. They deserve better than this, this is slave labor for them to not even get paid.

He knows he can’t change anything, it’s a moot point to even try. But he’s so  _ angry, _ so  _ done, _ he can’t take another moment of this. It’s while they’re digging graves, fingers blistering and toes freezing, that Jaskier loses it. All it took was one salacious comment from a beetleback and Jaskier finds himself heaving himself out of the grave and screaming in wordless rage as he swings his shovel. 

It collides with the helmet of the Nilfgaardian, making a loud  _ clang! _ The beetleback shouts and drops to his knees while other soldiers run over. Jaskier snarls and swears at them as well. He’s wildly swinging his shovel to keep them away. He gets a few good hits in before a gun goes off and fire erupts in his leg, his left knee buckling as he screams. Why wouldn’t they just kill him? Get it over with?

The shovel is yanked out of Jaskier’s hand. He’s hauled to his feet, hands tight on his biceps, and Jaskier dry sobs as weight is forced onto his ruined knee. He’s dragged over to the officer overseeing them and then shoved to his knees. Jaskier cants to the side to take the pressure off of his leg, breathing harshly and ragged from his rampage and the pain shooting through him.

The soldiers don’t bother with speaking Common in front of him, conversing in their native tongue. It grates on Jaskier’s ears, even as some of it sounds similar to Elder, and he grits his teeth as he glares at the ground. Thin fingers grab his chin, bruising in their grip as his face is forced up to look at the officer.

“You are a strong one,” the officer smiles cruelly, “We’ll fix that.”

Jaskier opens his mouth– to protest or ask for clarification he’s not sure– when he’s dragged across the yard to one of the electrical poles. His arms are forced behind him as his back is pressed to the pole and his wrists are cuffed together. The soldiers rip his shirt open.

The officer approaches, lifting his coat to reveal a black leather whip. Jaskier goes cold.

“Forty lashes should be sufficient to get an apology, I think,” the officer sneers as he uncoils the whip. He cracks it and Jaskier flinches. “What is your identifier?”

“Julian Alfred Pankr–”

“No, your  _ identifier; _ the one we gave you, slug.”

Jaskier grits his teeth, scowling deeply at the officer’s smug expression, “10 1 19 11 9 5 18.”

“Very good, but not good enough to receive a lighter punishment, I’m afraid,” the officer runs his fingers along a short length of the whip before cracking it forward. It snaps across Jaskier’s belly, the sensitive skin flaring bright red and Jaskier cries out. “Count.”

“One.”

The officer whips it again, another sharp flare of pain.

“Two.”

Again.

“Three.”

Again.

“Four.”

Again.

“F-five.”

Again. And Again. And Again. Fifteen. Twenty-one. Thirty-four. Jaskier is bleeding, his stomach and chest flayed open by the sharp leather that rakes through his flesh over and over again. He’s sobbing, tears running down his face, his throat dry and rough from screaming.

“Forty,” he croaks and slumps down against the pole. His blue trousers are purple with his blood.

“Now, say you’re sorry to my men,” The officer commands, brandishing the whip threateningly.

Jaskier squints up at them, his eyes watery and his breath ragged, “I’m sorry.”

The officer smiles and walks closer, gripping Jaskier’s chin once more and tipping his head back, “That’s much better. Now, get back to work.”

He’s uncuffed and the shovel is pushed back into his hands as he’s hauled to his feet. Jaskier gapes at them, all of his weight on his right leg and his blood staining the ground as he clutches the shovel, a life raft in a turbulent sea of violence. How is he supposed to just  _ go back to work? _ Like nothing happened? His knee is busted and his torso is screaming as much as his throat burns. He glances at the other prisoners and they avert their eyes, digging deeper into the ground.

“Well?” The officer crosses his arms, “Return to work, 10 1 19 11 9 5 18.”

Jaskier blinks and looks at the spinning ground, his heart pulsing in his ears as he carefully takes a step forward. His knee buckles beneath him. Jaskier cries out as he falls, the rough dirt scraping his palms. 

“Get up, or it’ll be another forty.”

He grits his teeth and blinks back tears of agony as he forces himself back to his feet, leaning heavily upon the shovel. If he uses it like a staff he can hobble his way back to the hole he was digging. The officer nods his approval and coils the whip, hooking it back on his belt and returning to his position. 

The hours bleed by as his injuries throb and endless tears drip down his face as he continues to dig. He’s shaking, barely able to hold the shovel anymore, when they call for the end of the day– late into the night, a punishment given to the many as a result of his actions. Resentful glares are aimed at him as he keeps his head bowed and leans on the shovel while everyone leaves for the bunker. 

Jaskier doesn’t think he can get out of the hole he’s dug himself into.

A pair of feet, as filthy as his own, stop in front of him. Then suddenly there’s a hand extended. Jaskier looks up to find a tall woman with shorn strawberry blonde hair and gray-blue eyes looking at him intensely. She jerks her head towards the bunkers and wiggles her fingers, raising her eyebrows expressively.

Jaskier nods his thanks and takes her hand, allowing her to help him up. She drags his arm across her shoulders and, with her help, he’s able to make it back to their bunks. She settles him onto his bed and then grabs some fabric off of hers, something she managed to squirrel away at some point no doubt, and starts to tear it into strips.

“Why are you helping me?” Jaskier asks quietly. She doesn’t reply right away, focused on wrapping his knee in stiff bandages torn from her fabric and then cleaning his chest with the dirty water available to them to drink. He doesn’t try to ask again, just sitting still and letting her work.

“It wasn’t right,” she whispers finally, keeping her voice lower than the murmur of the bunks, “I’m glad you hit them.”

Jaskier swallows thickly, suddenly moving to tears yet again. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Courtenay.”

He nods and they lapse back into silence until she’s done and she sits down next to him, taking her hand in her own slimmer one. He glances at her but doesn’t speak, squeezing her fingers in his and letting his head rest against the baseboards of the upper bunk as he closes his tired eyes. It feels nice to have someone in his corner. To touch someone again.

“What’s your story?” Courtenay breaks their passive silence, curious eyes turned on him. She has freckles across her nose and cheeks.

“What do you mean?” “I mean, how’d you get here?” She gestures vaguely at everything around them, “And why are you still fighting?”

“I…” Jaskier looks down at their clasped hands pensively, “I was a soldier... for Redania. They captured my entire squadron.” He falls quiet again as he thinks. He’s gotten used to the silence of his lips and the racing thoughts of his mind. “I suppose I still fight for my husband. If I give up, then I’m admitting I’ll never see him again.”

“A noble cause.”

“And you?” Jaskier looks over at her, “What’s yours?”

She sighs and rests her head on his shoulder, “My children. They’re with my parents in Lyria, and were visiting when my husband and I were taken.”

Jaskier squeezes her hand a second time, lacing their fingers together, anchoring each other to the floor lest they fly away to never return. “You’ll see them again,” he whispers, “I’m sure you will.”

It becomes a cycle. Jaskier reaches a breaking point, gets punished, and Courtenay patches him up again. He’s tried to rally some of the others into standing up with him, to push back against the tyranny that grinds them into the dirt beneath their boots, but there’s always too much fear. It’s crippling, he knows. He wakes up frozen in terror as his actions haunt his memory. As Artur lurks behind his closed eyes. As he sees Geralt at the other end of his rifle.

Courtenay is his only relief in the fire. A friend, nothing more, when he was so alone before. She’s a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, a person to hug when he’s weighted down by the sins he continues to rack up. Every time he watches them drag someone away and they don’t return. Every time he digs another grave for innocence. Every time he breaks just a little bit more and loses another part of him. 

The day Jaskier dies is no different than any other.

They’re fed their rancid food and put to work, just like every other day. He’s been here for… something like six months now, if he’s been counting the days correctly. Which would mean it’s somewhere around August, 1944. He missed Geralt’s birthday. He missed his  _ own _ birthday, but that’s less important to him, honestly. 

They’re mending boots today. Seated– and he never thought he’d be thankful for being allowed to  _ sit– _ and dipping brushes into pots of glue to reattach rubber soles before replacing the laces and dropping them in a bin. Jaskier is seated beside Courtenay, the two of them nigh inseparable, as they work in silence. 

Until it isn’t silent anymore. 

Beetlebacks flood the room, shoving people’s heads down onto the table. Someone grabs the back of Jaskier’s neck as he’s bent over, his forehead slamming down hard enough for stars to burst behind his eyes. His heart is hammering, his breath instantly coming in short gasps as his eyes roll wildly to figure out what’s going on.

“Someone here… is a  _ thief,” _ the officer of this squadron says as he walks up and down the rows of prisoners. “They stole three sheets of fabric. We already know who, so you’d best confess or we’ll start killing people. One. By. One.” 

The officer pulls out his pistol and aims it at the head of a young girl, barely old enough to be considered an adult, “Starting with her.”

“It was me!” 

Jaskier’s eyes snap to Courtenay, her hand raised a half inch off the table.  _ No. _ No, no! They can’t be punishing her, she doesn’t deserve it, it was only  _ fabric. _ She only stole it to help him. Why the fuck wouldn’t she let him steal it for her? She should have let him die.

“Very good,” the officer croons, “Take her.”

“NO!” Jaskier screams as they grab Courtenay and haul her out of her chair. He writhes and fights against the hands holding him down, “No,  _ no! _ Take me instead! It’s my fault, mine!”

“Yours, hm?” The officer looks at him, disdain written all over the man’s face, “Take him as well. Put him on the stocks.”

“Jaskier, no!” Courtenay shouts as they wrestle him out of his seat too. They drag both of them out to the nearest stocks and Jaskier’s wrists are chained behind a whipping post. Courtenay is forced to her knees, her eyes wild and frightened as her chest heaves. It was just fabric. 

“Take aim,” the officer commands and a soldier lifts their rifle to their shoulder, flicking the safety off. Courtenay whimpers, her face crumpling. Her eyes hold Jaskier’s. 

“Fire.”

It was only fabric.

Jaskier watches her collapse and something shatters within him. Like a cracked windshield of an automobile, the spiderwebs kept growing and spreading until the winds hit it just wrong and the entire pane breaks into a million pieces, raining glass down into the laps of the passengers. Jaskier slumps down to the ground. He doesn’t move as they rip open his shirt. He doesn’t make a sound as the whip cracks over the dozens of scars on his torso. 

He’s gone someplace else. Someplace far, far away. His body still lives– still moves, still obeys– but Jaskier is gone. He doesn’t think he can bring Jaskier back either. For the first time, he is completely alone. 

He stops counting the days.

He stops tracking the mornings.

He stops caring.

He’s never going home.

He’s going to die here.

Time loses all meaning to him. The sun rises and it sets and the days are all monotonously the same. His body gets up, it eats the meager food allowed to them, it follows orders and works, it goes to sleep. People avoid him, whispers of  _ “living wraith” _ following his footsteps. He doesn’t care, why would he? There’s nobody home  _ to _ care. 

He wakes up, shoulder and back sore from sleeping upon the harsh wooden slats of his bed, to the sun in his eyes. The dusty beam is streaming in from the unfinished ceiling– the same ceiling that has left them damp and cold from so many days of rain and the snows of winter– and he blinks in confusion. They’re always awake before the dawn, the siren going off at least a half hour before the sun even begins to rise.

It’s silent.

The others in his bunker are awakening as well, slowly sitting up with the caution of prey as they glance at each other and then the door. Where are the sounds of the camp? The rolling of voices, the crescendo of machines, the trilling of engines? They sit in their beds for a long time, long enough that the sunlight has moved across the ground several feet, before someone works up the nerve to open the door.

No beetlebacks are outside.

Slowly, so slowly, the prisoners creep out of the bunker and spread out through the camp. Other prisoners spill from their barracks and wander around, lost without instruction, terrified of doing something wrong. What if the Nilfgaardians aren’t actually gone? What if they were supposed to stay in their bunks?

A hand brushes his and he jumps, jerking away and looking over. Zoltan–  _ Zoltan, _ it’s Zoltan, even with his face thin and his body skeletal it’s Zoltan– holds his hands up placatingly before reaching for his hand again. He allows Zoltan to take it, a quick squeeze passing between them as his palm burns with memory, before they continue to walk. 

The gates are open.

A car is driving up the road.

A Cintran flag is flown from the automobile.

The soldiers inside, clad in the rich blue of their nation, are whooping and hollering as music blares and their little truck is followed by larger ones; trucks meant for transporting troops. He and Zoltan watch silently as the trucks drive into the camp, prisoners making way for them.

“What are you here for?” Someone shouts to them. He doesn’t know who. “Where are the Nilfgaardians?”

“We won the war, man!” One of the soldiers hollers and they all cheer wildly.

The prisoners are almost silent, not daring to allow themselves to hope.

“Nilfgaard surrendered!” 

Another cheer rises up from the soldiers, this time some of the newest prisoners joining in.

“And what are you going to do with us?” Someone demands, their tone sharp and guarded.

The soldiers glance at each other before one of them stands up, a huge grin on his face, “We’re here to take you home.”

Roars of relief and tears of joy erupt through the crowd as people jump and scream and wail. They pull each other into embraces– he’s pulled into Zoltan’s arms and his own automatically wrap around his friend– as their euphoria fills the air.

“Did you hear that, Jaskier?” Zoltan is grinning, his chapped lips cracked and a bead of blood bubbling up at the peak of his cupid's bow, “We’re going home!”

“Home,” Jaskier echoes emptily.

He’s not sure he knows what that means anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	4. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter but then the last chapter got too long so there's one more after this again, oops!  
> Thank you to [ghostinthelibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary) for beta-ing!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Graphic depictions of panic attacks, graphic depiction of post traumatic stress disorder

On September 2nd, 1945, the war with Nilfgaard ended. Celebrations filled the streets, confetti and hats flung into the air, cheers and whoops and hollers of joy echoed through houses as the news was repeated again and again.

_ “Nilfgaard has surrendered.” _

_ “Soldiers will be coming home.” _

_ “Work camps will be liberated.” _

Geralt is filled with a confusing mixture of euphoria and dread with each declaration of victory, standing on the balcony of their shitty apartment and watching the festivities below. The radio is on and he can hear it through the open door as he leans on the railing and pulls his coat closer around him. Geralt glances to the side, where Jaskier should be standing beside him, and aches. 

What if Jaskier didn’t make it?

He’s heard no word from the Redanian government about the fate of his husband– no confirmation of death, no reassurances of his life– nothing to suggest he continues to breathe aside from the recurring checks delivered to his mailbox. Yennefer assured him that this means they think Jaskier is still alive; if he were dead, they’d send Geralt a pay out and wipe their hands of him. 

It’s not very comforting.

Two weeks after the end of the war, there’s a knock on Geralt’s apartment door. He’s not home, away at Vesemir’s farm once again, so the telegram is slipped under the door and the messenger goes on his way. It lays there, yellowing in the sunlight that passes over it each evening, collecting dust, for another three weeks.

_ THE REDANIAN DEPARTMENT OF MILITARY AFFAIRS WISHES TO INFORM YOU OF THE RESCUE OF YOUR SPOUSE PRIVATE FIRST CLASS JULIAN ALFRED PANKRATZ ON SIXTEEN SEPTEMBER IN EBBING. LETTER TO FOLLOW. _

Geralt unlocks his apartment, a heaviness weighing down his shoulders and an ache in his knee from climbing the steep stairs, and steps inside. The telegram crinkles beneath his shoe and Geralt frowns, pulling back to peer down at it. His eyes widen and he moves so quickly his head spins as he stoops down to snatch it up, desperate eyes reading and rereading the thirty words again and again. He slumps against the wall, a ragged breath rushing through his teeth and a relieved grin tugging at his lips as tears well up in his eyes.

Jaskier’s alive.

He reads the telegram again, soaring heart sinking as the dates on it sink in. The sixteenth of September? It’s the thirteenth of October now…

Geralt shoves the telegram into his pocket and rushes back for the stairs, heedless of his pained leg, forgetting the open door to his apartment, and clattering down to the ground floor as fast as his bum legs can carry him. His grip is tight on the railing, forgoing his cane almost entirely, and he nearly slips at least thrice before he runs to their mailbox. His hands are shaking as he tries to shove the key into it, the tip catching and scratching wildly at the lock as frustration bubbles up in his throat and tears roll down his cheeks.  _ Fuck, _ if he can just get it  _ open! _

He pauses and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Steadies his hands. The key rattles into the lock and the mailbox is full from three weeks of post building up. He yanks it all out, tossing envelopes wildly aside, careless as to the contents as he searches for the red seal of Redania.

_ There. _ He drops the rest of the mail as he rips open the letter. 

_ Redanian Department of Military Affairs _ _   
_ _ To Geralt Eric Vesson _

_ Dear Mr. Vesson, _

_ On behalf of the King of Redania, we wish to thank you for your dedication to our troops and their service to the crown. Your spouse, Private First Class Julian Alfred Pankratz, has been rescued as a prisoner of war and is currently recovering in the Novigrad Memorial Hospital. He has been awarded a Purple Heart Medal, a Bronze Star Medal, a Nilfgaardian War Victory Medal, and a Prisoner of War Medal.  _

_ Redanian Department of Military Affairs _

_ RDMA _

Geralt swallows thickly, barely able to read the page as his joy blurs his vision and his eyes burn with relief. Jaskier’s okay. He’s alive he’s okay he’s  _ okay. _ He’s in a hospital in Novigrad. Or he was? Geralt doesn’t actually know if he’s still there– this letter is at least a fortnight old. He stoops down to sort through the rest of the mail, finding two postmarked from the hospital. Geralt reads the oldest first:

_ Dear Mr. Vesson, _

_ As the point of contact for Julian Alfred Pankratz, we wish to inform you of his admission to our hospital. He has minimal injuries and eagerly awaits your arrival. He has not yet been cleared for solo travel. He will be kept for observation for seven days before being re-evaluated for travel clearance. _

_ Thank you, _

_ Novigrad Memorial Hospital _

That letter was from a week ago, and Geralt frowns with worry even as he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding at the notice of minimal injuries. He then tears open the second one, postmarked two days ago:

_ Dear Mr. Vesson, _

_ As the point of contact for Julian Alfred Pankratz, we wish to inform you that he has not been cleared for solo travel. He will need to be accompanied out of the hospital and back to your home. If not collected within the next seven days, Mr. Pankratz will be moved to the nearby Veteran’s Hospital to await your arrival. _

_ Thank you, _

_ Novigrad Memorial Hospital _

_ Fuck. _ Geralt folds all of the letters together and hurries back up the stairs, immediately grabbing his suitcase and starting to fill it with his travel clothes. He’s got the suitcase halfway filled when he realizes he should probably send a telegram to Yennefer before suddenly showing up on her doorstep asking to borrow her car, so he grabs his pad of stationary and a pencil, quickly scribbling down a note to drop off at the post office. He then finishes packing his suitcase, plonks his hat on his head, and hobbles out of the apartment.

An expensive cab ride and a telegram later, Geralt has Yennefer’s automobile secured to drive from Aedirn to Redania, a two day journey. Gas and lodging is paid for, both there and on the return trip he’ll be making with Jaskier, by Yennefer’s generosity. She saw his wide-eyed desperation as he begged her to allow him use of her car because Jaskier’s alive,  _ alive, _ and he needs to go get him. And though the radio plays, it’s nothing more than white noise as Geralt thinks about all the things he gets to tell Jaskier, all the words they’ll share and the laughs they’ll have now that they’ll be together once more.

Forty nine hours and thirty two minutes since he dashed out of his apartment, Geralt is entering the Novigrad Memorial Hospital and walking up to the front desk. The attendant is filing paperwork and doesn’t look up at him, so he clears his throat. No response. 

He clears his throat again, a bit louder this time. 

Still nothing.

Geralt opens his mouth, a frown tugging the corners down into a scowl as he inhales, “Excuse me,” he growls, his voice gravelly from two days of next to no use.

The receptionist sighs and looks up, dark shadows under her eyes, “Yes? How can I help you, sir?”

Geralt glances down at the paperwork she’s filing. Death certificates; dozens of death certificates. His expression softens. “I’m looking for a patient. He was admitted a fortnight ago?”

“Last name?”

“Pankratz.”

She begins rifling through a different mess of files, scanning a patient list that looks longer than the Yaruga. “Julian?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Room 237, you’ll want to speak with the nurse station on that floor for admittance to his ward.”

Geralt frowns, the ticking of the clock on the wall and the echo of heels on the linoleum seeming infinitely louder in that moment. He can hear the dripping of the water cooler, the muffled sobs of loss, the grief that the walls are caulked with. “What ward is he in?”

“The psychiatric ward, sir.” She looks up at him with a look of pity in her gray eyes, “Take the elevator to the second floor, turn right down the hall and you’ll reach the nurse’s station.” 

“Thank you,” the words are hollow. Geralt’s heartbeat is faraway in his ears as he turns away from the desk and walks towards the lift. It’s somebody else’s pale hand that presses the call button, someone else’s unsteady feet that carry him onto the elevator, some other person’s thoughts roaring like white noise. He feels dizzy with it. Psychiatric ward? 

_ As the point of contact for Julian Alfred Pankratz, we wish to inform you that he has not been cleared for solo travel. He will need to be accompanied out of the hospital and back to your home. _

What happened?

Geralt swallows thickly as he turns right out of the elevator and hobbles down the hall, his knuckles white on the handle of his cane. His knee aches and his hip screams but still he perseveres; if Jaskier could make it through a war zone, he can walk down a hall. A man in a white uniform stands at the nurse’s station outside a set of reinforced double doors, the word “PSYCHIATRIC” printed above them in bold black paint on the sterile white walls.

“Can I help you, sir?” The nurse looks up as Geralt approaches and he nods, his mouth dry. He licks his lips. His breath shakes.

“I’m looking for Julian Pankratz,” Geralt’s request is more of a statement, one croaked from between the fingers of panic that have sunken into his throat, “I was told he’s here. Room 237.”

The nurse– Geralt notes his name tag says Regis– nods and sorts through the files in the station, “Julian Pankratz… oh! Yes, one of the POW vets. I see here we’ve sent word several times to his residence to a ‘Geralt Rivia’ informing his husband of his presence here. I presume you’re Geralt?” Regis looks up and Geralt nods. “Good to meet you. Actually, I’m really glad you’re here.”

Geralt blinks, “You are?”

“Julian has had a rough go of it. Evidence of torture, mental recession, periods of catatonic behavior: all signs of post traumatic stress disorder. He needs someone to watch him and care for him as he recovers, which is why he’s in the psychiatric ward.”

“So, you’re saying Jaskier is crazy.”

“Not at all,” Regis shakes his head, “While it is possible to have him recuperate in a psychiatric hospital, this is fairly common in soldiers. I think, with patience, therapy, and time– Jaskier, you called him? Jaskier will return to normal.” 

“How is he now?” Geralt’s voice is low and quiet, nearly a whisper, as his blood runs cool with fear.

“Lately he’s been prone to bouts of aggression when not catatonic.”

“Should I be worried?” Should Geralt fear for his own safety, is the unspoken question.

Regis shakes his head again, “It’s mostly shouting and hysterics, not much physical violence. Would you like to see him?”

Geralt nods immediately, not a doubt in his mind. Of  _ course _ he wants to see Jaskier, that’s his  _ husband, _ the love of his life. While it was a spur of the moment decision to ask Jaskier to marry him, it wasn’t a choice he’s come to regret. He can’t regret it, not now, not when he’s all Jaskier has. Regis opens the door to the psychiatric ward and indicates which room Jaskier is in.

Geralt, with his hat in hand and cane clutched in his fist, limps up the door that Regis said Jaskier is behind. He has to leave with Jaskier tomorrow, but he has to hope there’s still enough Jaskier to be found. Geralt swallows thickly, the words of the nurse heavy on his shoulders, and knocks on the door.

There’s no response.

Geralt waits a moment before knocking again. Still nothing. He knocks one last time but when that one doesn’t receive an answer either he slowly eases open the door. The room is plain and starkly white, half of it decorated lavishly with flowers and streamers and cards for the man asleep in the bed closest to the door. On the far side of the room, Jaskier is sitting up in bed and staring out the window. 

He’s completely silent, makes no indication that he’s even aware that Geralt is there. The only sign that he’s alive is the straight line of his back and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Geralt closes the door gently behind him and walks over, hanging his hat from a bedpost and pulling a chair up in front of Jaskier. Geralt sits down.

Jaskier blinks, his blue eyes slowly focusing on Geralt. He looks awful, even despite being back from the front for weeks now: bloodshot eyes, dark shadows bruised onto pale skin, hollow cheeks and scars dotting his hands and face. There’s one thick one that cuts through Jaskier’s ear and across his cheek and lips, leaving a divot in the cartilage of the shell of his ear and baring his teeth just the slightest amount. He looks like a ghost. A phantom of who he once was.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, reaching out and gently taking Jaskier’s bony hand in his own. He’s never seen Jaskier so thin, so sickly. “Jaskier, it’s me. I’m here now.”

Jaskier stares at him, his fingers limp in Geralt’s grip.

“I’m here now,” he whispers, bringing Jaskier’s hand to his lips. He never once looks away. “You’re not alone anymore.”

The silence in the room stretches infinitely, folding in on itself again and again until it's so heavy that even the featherlight touch of Jaskier’s shuddering gasp is able to shatter it. Geralt watches him as Jaskier blinks slowly, his breath shuddering in his throat and his fingers tightening on Geralt’s hand.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is broken, barely more than an exhale of syllables. Geralt nods and kisses Jaskier’s hand again and again.

“Yes. Yes, Jask, it’s me, It’s me, I’m here now,” Geralt repeats this like a mantra as Jaskier watches him with hazy eyes. He’s not fully present, Geralt was warned he wouldn’t be for a while still; his recovery will be long and slow but this–  _ this, _ being here, being  _ alive– _ is the first step.

They don’t speak much, Geralt just holding Jaskier’s hand and running his thumb over the pockmarks and scars that mar his sun tanned skin. Occasionally Jaskier will hiccup, or inhale as though he’s going to speak, and Geralt perks up; he desperately wants to hear Jaskier’s voice again. But his husband remains silent, though his fingers hold firm to Geralt’s.

The following day Jaskier is cleared to travel. He’s helped to his feet by his nurse, dressed in the civilian clothing Geralt brought along with him before he’s declared ready to go. Geralt can see every single vertebrae in his spine as he changes, each rib able to be played like a xylophone as they press against his thin skin, dark red scars criss crossing again and again over his torso and belly so thoroughly Geralt wants to scream and march right back to Ebbing himself to kill whoever is responsible. Instead, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand in his own, nodding his thanks to the nurses as they walk out, and leads Jaskier to the car he’s borrowing from Yennefer.

“Are you okay to be in a car for a few hours?” Geralt asks quietly, “We can start home and make it halfway across Redania if we start now.”

Jaskier’s eyes are half-focused on his hands as Geralt folds them into his lap in the car. He’s patient, giving Jaskier ample time to process the question, and is rewarded with a small nod as Jaskier curls his fingers into loose fists. Geralt gets behind the wheel, starting the car and– with a glance to reassure himself that Jaskier is there beside him– begins to drive.

The journey back is agonizing. Unlike the one to Redania, during which Geralt was alone and so riddled with anxiety he was singularly focused on his destination, he keeps noticing Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. Whether it’s because Jaskier is scratching at his own arms, pulling at his dog tags, or sitting so still Geralt’s half convinced he’s an illusion, Jaskier is incredibly distracting. And yet he remains completely silent. Even with the radio playing, ordinarily something Jaskier joyfully hums or sings along to, he doesn’t make a sound. 

The first night they spend at a motel, Jaskier doesn’t sleep. Geralt knows Jaskier doesn’t sleep because Jaskier spends the night checking the locks again and again and again. Over and over, obsessively, the locks click out of and into place. The curtains ruffle as he peers through them. His breath shudders against the door as he peeps through the hole. Geralt watches him go around and around in circles without ceasing, if he’s not checking the locks or looking for threats, he’s seated at the end of Geralt’s bed. Motionless.

The second night in a motel isn’t much better.

Geralt’s hopeful that Jaskier will relax once they make it home, the apartment being a familiar place. He’s decided it isn’t a good idea to take Jaskier on public transit, or in a cab with a stranger driving them, so he’ll send a telegram to Yennefer informing her that her car is in Ard Carraigh at their apartment building. The elevator is still out when they arrive, and has been ever since they moved in, and the sky is dark as Geralt herds Jaskier up the stairs. 

Jaskier drags his feet, leaning back and slowing his steps further and further until each stair takes him nearly a minute to step up on to. He looks ashen and clammy, his breathing hard and shuddering and his hand tight in Geralt’s. Geralt pauses, doesn’t make Jaskier go any further, and squeezes his husband’s hand.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier? Talk to me,” Geralt is begging, and the pleading tone is obvious in the clip of his syllables. Jaskier shakes his head, watching the flickering light at the top of the landing with unrivaled intensity. “It’s just the light. We’re in our apartment building. It’s shitty, and it sucks, and nothing works right, but it’s  _ ours. _ That’s what you said, remember?”

Jaskier swallows thickly and opens his mouth. He closes it. He then opens it again and takes a rattling breath. “The door,” he whispers on the exhale.

“What about the door?” Geralt is patient. He’s always been more patient than Jaskier, and Jaskier was always patient for him. 

Jaskier shakes his head again, a soft whimper curling from his throat as he tries to take a step backwards, forgetting he’s on the stairs. His foot meets air and Jaskier gasps, throwing Geralt’s hand away. He grabs the railing as he falls, his arm scratching painfully between the sharp wood and the plaster. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt hurries down the few steps Jaskier fell, dropping to sit beside him, “Are you okay?”

Jaskier bursts into tears.

Full body sobs that rattle Geralt’s bones as he collapses into Geralt’s arms. They’re loud and they’re ugly and there’s a dampness growing disgustingly on Geralt’s shoulder but Geralt can’t be bothered to care as his husband shakes apart, any remaining shards of Jaskier shattering. Only this time, Geralt is here to pick up the pieces and help glue them back together again.

They remain there on the stairs for an indeterminate amount of time– long enough for Geralt’s ass to fall asleep, but even then he doesn't dare move as Jaskier cries himself out. Once the heart wrenching sobs have abated to sniffles, and the sniffles have faded to soft hiccups, Geralt coaxes Jaskier to his feet and leads him up the rest of the stairs. There isn’t another panic, and Geralt’s not sure if it’s because Jaskier’s too exhausted or because he doesn’t care anymore. 

Geralt sits Jaskier down on their bed once they’re in the apartment, kneeling down before him with cracking knees to untie Jaskier’s shoes and remove them. Jaskier doesn’t say a word, nothing but the soft huffs of his breath accompanying Geralt’s slow undressing of him. Geralt runs his fingers lightly over one of the scars that wraps around Jaskier’s shoulder and across his breast– a dark, ugly thing that must have carved deep and healed poorly based on the jagged path it cuts through Jaskier’s pale skin– feeling the fluttering of Jaskier’s heart beneath his fingertips, the rise and fall of his chest under Geralt’s palm, reassurances that he’s here. 

He’s alive.

With a soft sigh, Geralt undresses as well and gets into bed. Jaskier lays down beside him and does not protest as Geralt wraps an arm around his soldier’s waist to pull him snug against Geralt’s chest. With his own fatigue tugging at his bones, Geralt closes his eyes.

It’s still dark when he wakes. The bed is cold and the air frigid from a stiff breeze that makes their curtains flap with each billowing snap from the open window. Geralt sits up immediately, eyes searching the darkness and praying that his instincts are wrong. The door to the bedroom is open as well, quiet sounds coming from the room beyond.

With a sigh of relief, Geralt gets out of bed. Cane in hand, he makes his way into the other room. “Jaskier?” He asks softly, reluctant to frighten but desperate to find. 

Hiccuping breaths lead him to the kitchen where Jaskier is bent over the table, their single fluorescent light buzzing overhead and the frantic flipping of pages filling the air. Geralt frowns and shuffles closer as Jaskier coughs on another hiccup. Jaskier’s shoulders are hunched and his hands tremble while he yanks on the yellow pages of the telephone directory. A page tears and he makes a soft, wounded sound.

“Jaskier?” Geralt repeats, reaching out but not touching. “What are you doing?”

“I have to find her,” Jaskier’s voice is broken, cracking and frayed. 

“Her?” Geralt ignores the tiny part of him that doubts Jaskier’s commitment, “Her who?”

“Courtenay! Courtenay, Courtenay I need to find her I need to know she’s– she’s not– she–” Another page tears. Jaskier scowls and slams his fist on the table. 

Geralt surges forward to grab his wrist as he raises his hand again, “Jaskier, stop! We’ll find her, okay? We’ll find her. Where does she live?”

Jaskier shakes his head, tears running silently down his reddened cheeks. He’s so thin still. “I don’t know.”

“Does she have a family?”

“A husband, and two children,” Jaskier perks up slightly, turning his bloodshot eyes on Geralt. Dark shadows paint the bags beneath his eyes.

Geralt nods patiently, “And what are their names?”

“I…” Jaskier’s face crumples, “I don’t know.”

“Do you know where–”

“Give up, Geralt!” Jaskier shouts suddenly, ripping his hand away and grabbing at the meager hair on his head, “It doesn’t matter, we’ll never find her.” His shoulders heave and his fingers drag at the translucent skin stretched across his cheekbones as he drags his hands down his face, “We won’t find her.”

This is the most Jaskier has spoken since Geralt arrived at the hospital three days before, and Geralt tamps down the small surge of jealousy at who the words are for. They’re not for him, Geralt, Jaskier’s  _ husband. _ No, they’re for someone Geralt has never met, they’re a means to an end. “Jaskier, we can find her,” Geralt tries to reassure him, reaching out again, “We just need to be persistent.”

Jaskier smacks his hand away, backing up against the wall. “We can’t. We can’t, we can’t, we won’t, Geralt. We won’t find her.”

“Why not?”

Jaskier’s pushed himself into the corner of the cabinets and the wall, his head in his hands as he tugs at his short locks, “She’s dead.”

Geralt feels, for the umpteenth time, like he’s been doused in a bucket of ice; his stomach plummets through the floor and his heart aches to reach out even as Jaskier cringes away from his touch. “Oh,  _ Jaskier,” _ Geralt murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier slides to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his skeletal arms tightly around them. “Go back to bed, Geralt,” he whispers, gaze fixed on the stained linoleum of their kitchen, “Sorry I woke you.”

“Will you come back, too?” Geralt asks.

He waits until Jaskier gives him a small nod. He feels as though his ribs have been broken open, like someone has cut into his chest and wrapped barbed wire around his bleeding heart as he shuffles back to the bedroom and lays down again. The image of Jaskier, so small and scared, is there whenever he closes his eyes. So he doesn’t.

Jaskier never comes back to bed.

The days after don’t improve; Geralt wants to grab anyone who has said recovery is two steps forward, one step back and strangle them because all he sees is Jaskier standing still. 

He’s paranoid: checking the locks on their apartment obsessively every morning and evening, watching Geralt cook but being unwilling to touch the gas stove himself, hiding the knives in various locations around the living room and bedroom– Geralt’s even found one under his  _ own _ pillow, which he confiscated and warned Jaskier about the dangers of doing it again. And if Jaskier isn’t taking protective measures, he’s sitting quietly and watching the street below. 

When they go to bed, Jaskier refuses to even lie down unless the window is open and the curtains are closed– for which he brushes off Geralt’s requests to explain his reasoning– and then he only waits until Geralt has fallen asleep before he’s getting up and sneaking out of their room to check the locks yet again and then fall asleep on the couch. He looks awful, exhausted and thin as he barely eats, barely sleeps, and Geralt feels like he’s about to pull his own hair out with worry. 

Jaskier  _ does _ talk a little more, at least. If there ever was a silver lining to the darkest storm Geralt’s ever weathered, it’s that since Jaskier dreamed about his friend he’ll answer questions asked of him. Geralt still doesn’t know who Courtenay  _ is _ exactly, but he does know she was extremely important to Jaskier and Jaskier dreams of her often; whenever he does, it leaves him looking even worse the following morning than usual. 

With his found words, though, are found arguments. Jaskier not bathing frequently enough, Geralt not being careful when leaving and entering the apartment, Jaskier being overbearing, Geralt hovering too much; if there’s something to fight about they will. Most commonly, however, is Jaskier’s refusal to go to therapy.

It’s too expensive. He doesn’t need it. It’s too far away. He doesn’t want it. Whatever excuse Jaskier finds to not attend therapy, Geralt finds another reason for him  _ to _ go and a workaround for the previous one. Geralt has money saved up, Jaskier needs sleep, Geralt can borrow Yennefer’s car, Geralt will go with him. 

It finally comes to a head when Geralt wakes up in the early morning to see Jaskier hovering over him. Jaskier’s eyes are wild, his knees pressing tightly to Geralt’s hips, and his shaggy hair falls around his face in greasy curtains. He has a knife in his hand.

Geralt shouts in alarm, shoving Jaskier off of him. He scrambles away as best he can on the bed. “Jaskier! Get down!” 

Jaskier jerks like he’s been struck. He launches himself off of the bed and onto the floor with a loud thump. Geralt’s heart is rabbiting in his chest as he watches the edge of the bed, his breathing ragged and frightened. His fingers shake twisted in the sheets. Jaskier doesn’t get up again.

“Jaskier?” Geralt whispers. Like an automaton starting up, he jerkily moves to the edge of the bed to peer over it. Jaskier is laid out, face down, on the floor with his hands covering his head and neck; the knife is forgotten beside him. He’s trembling hard enough for his bones to drum on the wooden flooring.

Geralt carefully leans down and picks up the knife, dropping it on the bedside table, before sliding down to the ground beside his panicking husband. Jaskier’s short, gasping breaths make his shoulders jump and heave; his teeth chatter. “Jaskier?” Geralt asks softly, laying a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier gasps and rolls over, grabbing Geralt’s wrist. Geralt winces as the bones creak warningly in Jaskier’s grip, “Jaskier, let go. It’s just me, remember? We’re home, it’s just us.” Geralt keeps his voice low and even, remaining still and calm. Jaskier stares at him for a moment longer and then releases Geralt’s arm as though it burned him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whines, pulling his knees up as he sits against the bed, “Fuck, Geralt, I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?” Geralt asks softly.

Jaskier shakes his head, “Just–” A shaking breath. “Just a bad dream. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to… Jaskier, you nearly killed me this morning!” Geralt argues and Jaskier flinches.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time, baby! You have to tell me what’s going on,” Geralt huffs out a frustrated breath, “You have to talk to me! And, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have to talk to a therapist. To a professional! Yenn said she knows–”

“No!” Jaskier shouts, covering his ears and pressing his forehead to his knees, “No, no! I’m not going to a doctor, no!”

“Why not? I need a  _ real _ reason this time, Jask, not just another bullshit excuse!”

“Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, go fuck yourself!”

Geralt grabs his shoulders and Jaskier jerks and wails, caught between the bed and Geralt. “Jaskier! You  _ have _ to talk to me! Why won’t you see a therapist?”

“Get off of me!”

“Tell me!”

A sob rips free of Jaskier’s chest as he goes completely limp, a puppet with its strings cut beneath Geralt’s hands. 

Geralt jerks away, hands aloft and eyes wide with horror as Jaskier weeps. Both of them are breathing hard, echoes of anger in each shaking inhale and threads of grief in each shuddering exhale. Geralt slowly shifts, moving onto his knees even as the right one screams in protest. “Jaskier?” He reaches out.

Jaskier scrambles to his feet and rushes out of the room. The front door slams behind him.

Geralt is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly swear the comfort and fluff starts next chapter.
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	5. A Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter but it go too long. I've got the fic completed though so the _last_ last chapter will be posted tomorrow!
> 
> Thank you to [ghostinthelibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary) for beta-ing!

He’s not sure where he’s going.

His bare feet splash through the icy puddles of water on the sidewalk; with arms wrapped around his bare chest in a facsimile of comfort, Jaskier stumbles through the streets of Ard Carraigh. He keeps his head bent, rain dripping from his soaked hair, and his legs are frozen in his sopping pajamas. He sniffles, shivering and shaking, and still keeps moving. 

His left foot hurts something like a bitch, and he thinks he might be leaving blood in his wake. He can’t know, can’t tell; the water washes it all away. 

It washes him clean.

Clean of the sins he committed in Ebbing. Clean of the guilt he carries. Clean of the death and the blood and the anger that’s plagued his every waking thought– anger at the war, at Nilfgaard, at Redania, at  _ Geralt– _ all of it rinsed away by the freezing rain that falls in heavy droves. 

He wants to go home.

Jaskier lifts his head, rainwater immediately running into his burning eyes and soothing the ache that his grief has left behind. He’s not sure where he is. This isn’t a part of the city he recognizes, not in the slightest. He swallows hard, the action clicking in his ringing ears. His breath catches in his tight throat.

“How do I get home?” He whispers in dismay. His fingers are turning blue, his arms whiter than they are red, his veins mapping out his life beneath his translucent skin; he’s bound to catch a cold. 

Jaskier laughs then. And laughs. And laughs a bit more; until he’s not sure if he’s still laughing or if he’s crying again because that’s what Geralt would always warn him about when he would go to work in the rain.  _ “Be careful or you’ll catch a cold; then I’ll have to take care of you and no one wants that.” _

Jaskier wants that.

He has wanted that–  _ is _ wanting that. He wants to go home and have Geralt hold him and tell him everything will be okay. He wants to feel safe. Geralt makes him feel safe.

_ Not anymore. _

But why not? Why is seeing a doctor such a horrible thing?

_ Being held down. Needles poked into skin. Pain blossoming with each pass of a scalpel. “Tell us everything you know and this will stop.” The warm trickle of fear on his leg. Blood dripping down his– _

Geralt said he’d come along. That if Jaskier was too afraid to go to therapy alone he would go with. Jaskier sniffles and pushes his dripping hair out of his eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath. Geralt won’t let anything happen to him.

Jaskier trusts him.

He takes another reassuring breath and picks a direction to walk in. He’s sure he’ll eventually come to either a public transit station or a street he recognizes, but as he walks it becomes increasingly clear how lost he truly is. He swallows down the fear that threatens to drown him as he continues to put one aching foot in front of the other; walking until he suddenly smells something wonderful.

It’s warm and full and reminds him of home. Of nights spent over a pot of soup with a laugh on his lips and his heart in his eyes. Of Geralt standing beside him, chopping carrots to be added to their dinner while Jaskier sings and dances around him. Jaskier’s eyes fill with tears anew as he follows the smell, finding it leading him to a recreation center. 

The door is open and warm light spills out onto the sidewalk as Jaskier steps beneath the overhang and into shelter. He knows what he looks like, but hopefully the tags gleaming on his chest will lend him a hand; at least, he prays they will while passing through the open door anyway. He can hear voices ahead, the bubble and hum of laughter and people, and he stops. People mean danger. People also mean help.

With new resolve, Jaskier walks further into the rec center, passing a sign directing the homeless to the soup kitchen at the back. Sure enough, in a large room filled with tables and chairs and the wet squeaking of shoes upon linoleum, are a few dozen men and women seated or milling about. There’s a game of darts on the far wall, and even a pool table in the corner opposite of several banquet tables set up with pots of soup and plenty of food. 

Jaskier’s stomach grumbles. He hasn’t been eating properly ever since he got back, his stress levels have been far too high to keep much of anything down at all as his stomach constantly twisted itself into knots. He shivers and rubs his arms.

“Are you here for the kitchen?” A voice asks behind him. Jaskier turns. A young woman with straw blonde hair and a very round face is smiling at him kindly, “You look half drowned, I have to say. So, even if you aren’t here for the kitchen, we’ll feed you something anyway. A stiff breeze would blow you away!”

Jaskier blinks at her and swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly dry as his heart hammers, “Thank you.”

“Anytime! C’mon, let’s get you a change of clothes, dear, you’re dripping on the floor,” she waves for him to follow her towards a side room, “My name is Marilka, what’s yours?”

“Jaskier,” he murmurs. He keeps his shoulders hunched and his head down.

“Well, it’s swell to meet you, Jaskier. Are you a soldier? I see you’ve got some dogs,” she glances at the gleam of his tags and he crosses his arms tighter as he gives her a curt nod. “Ain’t that something? We got another soldier here tonight, too. Said his name was Cahir, d’you know him?”

How could he possibly know everyone in the Redanian army? He nearly says so, too, before stopping himself and just shaking his head with a declining hum. 

“Then you can meet him! He seems awful lonely, and so do you.” Marilka digs through some bins in the storage closet and pulls out a warm flannel shirt and a set of dated trousers, “They may be a mite big on you, but I’m sure I can find some suspenders somewhere. The loo’s two doors down.”

Jaskier nods and goes into the quiet bathroom, silently changing and then peering at himself in the mirror. The shirt hangs large on his frame and he has to roll the cuffs up a few times to have use of his fingers. The trousers he holds with one hand, definitely far too big and also reminding him oddly of his grandfather. Jaskier doesn’t remember much of the man, but maybe this style of pants was one that his grandpa wore.

Maybe he should try reconnecting with his family. They might be happy to know he survived the war.

Before he can follow that train of thought too far and lose sight of the road, Jaskier exits the restroom to find Marilka. She’s waiting by the storage closet and hands him a pair of suspenders with a smile before pointing at a thin man sitting alone at the far side of the room, “That’s Cahir, why don’t we get you set up with something to eat and then you can say hello?”

“I really just need–” Jaskier’s small burst of confidence peters out when Cahir glances up at them.

“What was that?”

He clears his throat softly, “Nothing.”

“Well, come along, then,” she takes him by the elbow and steers him through the crowd, either unaware or uncaring of the way his breath catches in half forgotten gasps. His heart begins to thunder, roaring in his ears; he’s acutely aware of Marilka’s fingers on his arm, of the brush of shoulders against his own, of the eyes that turn and stare at him. He can’t make a sound.

Pool balls clack together.

_ Gun fire. The clack of helmets. Hissing gas. “Masks on!” _

Jaskier is on the floor. He can’t breathe. He can’t  _ breathe. _ Why is no one doing anything? All of the air has been sucked out of the room and he’s the only one who can feel it. Are they not human?! He glances up.

_ The gleam of a scalpel. A cruel grin. “This will only hurt a lot.” _

Someone is screaming. He thinks it might be him. 

“Jaskier! Jaskier, calm down!”

Who’s talking to him?

_ “Get down!” _

He wants Geralt.

_ “This man is unfit to work.” _

He wants Geralt.

_ It was just fabric. _

He wants Geralt.

He opens his eyes to a white ceiling bathed in evening sunlight. The steady beeping of an EKG machine accompanies his foray back into consciousness. Someone is holding his hand.

Jaskier looks over quickly, the beeping spiking briefly with his fear. A familiar head of white hair rests on the bed beside him.  _ Geralt. _

His heart steadies again as he squeezes Geralt’s hand lightly, tears pricking his eyes. He’s been nothing but trouble for months now, how can Geralt even stand him? Why is Geralt even trying? Why is he here? After everything Jaskier has said and done to hurt him, Geralt’s still here.

Geralt inhales deeply as he wakes up, giving Jaskier’s hand a squeeze in return. “Jask?” He raises his head, squinting through sleep bleary eyes. When he meets Jaskier’s gaze, a breath of relief deflates his shoulders and he cants forward to press his forehead to Jaskier’s knuckles.  _ “Fuck, _ Jaskier, baby, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers.

“No,  _ no, _ don’t be. I should be the one apologizing,” Geralt shakes his head, “I kept pushing you to heal and get better at a pace faster than what you were ready for, and when you tried to tell me I wouldn’t listen.  _ I’m _ sorry. I should have thought more about your feelings, not just how everything was making me feel.”

Tears spill over Jaskier’s cheeks as he breaks down in fractured laughter. Geralt’s apologizing to  _ him? _ “I’m so fucked up now, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice cracks, “I’ve been nothing but heartache for you.”

Geralt opens his mouth to argue but Jaskier shakes his head and speaks again, “I have been, don’t try to lie. I haven’t… I haven’t been trying to get better. Part of me thinks this might all be a dream, that the moment I… I finally feel  _ safe… _ is when it’ll end and I’ll wake up.” Jaskier wipes his eyes with his wrist, “It’s not an excuse for my behavior, and I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

“Can I hug you?” Geralt’s eyes are shining and his hand shakes with just the slightest tremors in Jaskier’s own. 

Jaskier smiles wetly and nods, “Yes, please.” Geralt surges forward, wrapping Jaskier tightly in his arms and burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. 

Jaskier does the same, his stomach flipping and heart stuttering as panic tries to rear its ugly head– the EKG monitor attempts to betray his irrational fear with a single loud spike– but he wrangles it back down in favor of the security he feels in Geralt’s embrace.

“I love you,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier nearly sobs with relief.

“I love you, too.” He feels safe.

**Winter - 1945**

“What’s this?” 

Geralt has Jaskier in his arms, the two of them lounging on their shitty couch in their shittier apartment and watching the snowfall outside in the cold light of the winter evening. Jaskier looks up to see that Geralt has pushed the sleeve of Jaskier’s jumper up enough to rub his thumb over the stark black tattoo of a sun on his forearm. 

Jaskier’s stomach churns as he stares at the little tattoo and the string of numbers beneath it. He wants to snap, to tell Geralt to shove off and leave it alone, to pull away and hide. He’s tainted,  _ ruined, _ soiled by the touch of Nilfgaard upon his body. He knows the scar on his face stretches gruesomely when he speaks, how his teeth are bared even with his lips closed– he and Eskel will have something shared between them now. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice pulls him back to earth. He’s still looking at his arm, which Geralt has covered with the sleeve of Jaskier’s sweater, and blinks as he focuses. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t.” Jaskier’s reply is immediate and he can feel Geralt stiffen slightly behind him. “But… but I should.”

Geralt’s legs bracket Jaskier’s hips and his chest is warm against Jaskier’s back. He feels safe in Geralt’s embrace; the arm around his stomach is a shield, not a restraint. Jaskier pulls the sleeve of his jumper back up again, looking steadily at the tattoo. The permanent reminder of what he went through.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. 

And starts to talk.

He tells Geralt about being captured, getting caught like a fly in a spider’s web. How it was orchestrated for his battalion to be ambushed– they were little more than a distraction after all. He tells Geralt about being tortured for information, how he nearly died upon arrival at Winneburg, his relief that he was spared at the expense of another and the guilt he carries for that relief. He tells Geralt everything leading up to the tattoo: how his hair was shorn, how his body was battered, how his arm burned with the violation of being marked.

Geralt stays quiet through it all, but Jaskier knows he’s not apathetic. He can feel the sorrow in Geralt’s chest, the shuddering of Geralt’s breath against his back. How Geralt’s arm tightens around him protectively. When he’s done, the apartment falls silent once more save for the dripping faucet in the bathroom and the wind that cries for Jaskier outside.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs finally. His voice is thick and breaks on Jaskier’s name. “That’s… gods you…  _ fuck.” _

Jaskier hums in agreement, exhausted by his own story. It’s the most he’s talked in some time. 

“Is that why the sound of cars backfiring frightens you?”

“It sounds like gunfire,” Jaskier whispers, ducking his head. With shame, with fear, with the desire to escape and become visible– he’s not sure. 

“And when I yelled at you?”

_ “Jaskier, get down!” _

Jaskier nods, but doesn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt instantly replies, “I’ll try to be more conscious of what I say–”

“Don’t watch your words, not for me. Not for this,” Jaskier shakes his head, “Just… I’ll tell you, okay? When something you say reminds me of… of then, just a bit too much. Is that okay?”

“Of course, Jask,” Geralt presses his lips to the top of Jaskier’s head. They fall back into silence once more, but this one is comfortable and built on new understanding.

**Summer - 1946**

He takes a deep breath. Geralt’s hand is warm in his own as he looks up at the stark medical building–  _ scalpels blood pain “this will hurt a lot”– _ and the tremor of his fingers makes his grip loosen. His chest is tight and the bite of copper on his tongue from the way he’s worrying his lip between his teeth. Geralt squeezes his hand.

“You’re okay,” he says quietly, his voice a soothing island in a roiling sea of fear, “We can go home, you’ve done enough.”

Jaskier swallows thickly and shakes his head, “I said I’d do it.” He drags his eyes away from the office to look at Geralt. “And we have an appointment.”

“Are you sure?” Geralt has a mixture of pride and concern on his face, “It’s okay to turn around and try again another day.”

“We’ve done that four other times, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly, “I have to do this.”

Geralt lifts their locked hands to press a tender kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles, his golden eyes holding Jaskier’s gaze and Jaskier feels like he has to look away as heat rises to his cheeks. “Even after all this time?” Geralt asks with a small chuckle and Jaskier ducks his head in embarrassment. 

“Shut up.”

Jaskier swallows again and looks up at the medical offices. He’s done this four times before just to make the appointment– they can’t afford cancellation fees– and ended up sending Geralt in without him to finally schedule one. This will be the first time Jaskier actually sets foot in the building. 

He takes a shaking breath and Geralt squeezes his hand reassuringly. With a determined nod, he walks in.

The lobby is just as stark as any medical office lobby, a single fountain dribbling in the corner by the elevators and a potted ficus in the center of the room. The heels of their shoes thump on the tiled floor as they walk to the elevator, Geralt pressing the call button. 

Jaskier’s heart is thundering, pounding at his ribs with a jackhammer that threatens to shatter his chest and allow his heart to leap free. He imagines he’d look like a puppet without a master, were his heart to escape the restraints of his veins. His blood would pool across the floor and stain the soles of Geralt’s shoes as his corpse collapsed to the ground, his chest a gaping cavity–

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Jaskier blinks out of the sudden daydream– or was it a nightmare– as Geralt guides him into the box and presses the button for the fourth floor. Jaskier takes a shaky breath and Geralt glances at him with concern.

“You doing okay?”

_ Blood. Pain. “I find I disagree with Redanian politics.” _

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? It’s okay to go home.”

“Stop saying that!” Jaskier snaps, his nerves frayed and his blood searing through him, “We can’t afford to cancel the appointment, Geralt. And I have to do this. I can’t stand it anymore, I hate everything about my entire existence right now and if this is what will help me then I’ll face down even the gods were they to stand in my way.”

“Jaskier.”

_ “What?” _

Geralt has a soft expression on his face, even with Jaskier having yelled at him. “I’m really proud of you.”

Jaskier deflates instantly, his ire carried away to someplace it can’t poison him from on those five words. “Geralt, I…”

“It’s okay,” Geralt assures him with another squeeze of his fingers, “You’re scared, I know. I’m really proud that you’re doing it anyway, no matter your reasons for it. You’re the bravest man I know, Jaskier.”

Jaskier ducks his head, letting his shaggy hair fall in front of his face. It’s far too long now; maybe he ought to visit the barber. It doesn’t seem so scary anymore, not with Geralt at his side.

**Fall - 1946**

He can’t see.

The blizzard rages around him, stinging his skin and burning his eyes even as he raises a hand to protect them. Jaskier gasps as he looks down at his clothing, the drab uniform of Winneburg. It does nothing to protect him from the biting cold that snarls at him. The fabric snaps against his smarting flesh.

There! Ahead of him. There’s a light. Jaskier trudges forward through the knee-deep snow, bending to fight the howling gale that screams in his ears. It almost sounds like a woman. The light doesn’t draw closer and he starts to weaken. His breathing is coming in short gasps, each sharp inhale searing his throat with ice. 

“Jaskier!”

His name, barely more than a faint echo on the wind. Jaskier squints through the storm towards the light. A shadow passes over it. 

“Wh-who’s there?” Jaskier calls out, his teeth chattering. He’s shivering hard enough that it blurs his vision; or maybe that’s just the snow swirling and causing his stomach to churn.

“Jaskier!”

The voice is louder. He staggers forward another few steps. A powerful gust knocks him to his knees and his hands sink into the drift. He’s so cold his fingers burn.

“Jaskier.”

It’s directly in front of him. Jaskier looks up to see bare feet, toes blackened with frostbite. The ice that covers their flesh crawls up their ankles and disappears beneath threadbare skirts. His gaze lifts further.

Courtenay’s corpse looks back at him. She wears a gruesome grin, the stretched skin of her gray face splitting at the corners of her lips. One of her eyes is missing and her hair is patchy and thin. He can see her bones.

Jaskier screams and scrambles back; uncaring of the way the snow drenches his own clothing. Courtenay is unmoved by the wind that buffets Jaskier, striding forward with purpose. The ice creeps up her neck.

“It was only fabric, Jaskier,” her voice is faint, yet thunders around him. “It was only fabric. I died over fabric.”

“I– I–” Jaskier’s already short breaths come even faster, his heart rabbiting fast enough to pound in his throat. 

“And it was all because of you.” She makes a sound that should be a sigh, but instead is the scraping of bones as her ribs shift beneath her torn shirt. “If you hadn’t been so stupid all the time. You should have just done what they said, Jaskier.”

“I–  _ no, _ no it wasn’t my fault!” Jaskier shakes his head, still shuffling backwards through the snow even as Courtenay moves closer. “It wasn’t my fault! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“You should have ducked when they told you to, Julian.”

Jaskier’s head whips to the side. Artur stands there in his bloodstained fatigues, a neat hole blown through one eye. Crimson tears drip down his skeletal face. 

“Artur?” Jaskier whispers. “Ar-Artur, I– I’m sorry–”

“Just had to stay standing after falling in the mud. So fussy about your clothes,” Artur breathes. 

“No… no that’s not what happened–”

“You don’t even know my name.” A third voice comes from his other side. The woman who died in his place. “I  _ died _ for you to live, and you don’t even know my name.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. It’s not my fault! I’m so sorry.” Jaskier’s tears freeze upon his cheeks, icing his eyelashes shut. Each time he opens his eyes is harder than the last. He crawls backwards away from the cadavers haunting him. 

He bumps up against something.

Jaskier slowly cranes his head back.

“You left me alone, Jask.” 

Geralt’s flesh is half gone. Maggots drop out of his open mouth onto Jaskier. He watches in abject horror as a long centipede crawls out of Geralt’s ear and into an empty eye socket. 

“You left me,” Geralt repeats, more worms showering down and Jaskier flinches away. The other corpses have closed in on him. There’s nowhere he can go. “You left me!”

“I’m sorry!” Jaskier sobs, curling up tight. He’s so cold he’s numb. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He tries to ignore the itching of his skin as bugs and decay fall upon him. “I had no choice!”

“You always have a choice,” Artur sneers.

“You could have died,” Courtenay agrees.

“You  _ should _ have died,” the nameless woman spits.

“It would have been better for all of us,” Geralt finishes. Jaskier wails.

“I’m  _ sorry!  _ I’m so, so sorry! Please, gods, please go away. Please please please please pleasepleaseplease–”

_ “Jaskier.” _

“No, please, I’m sorry, please! Fuck, please leave me be!”

_ “Jaskier!” _

Hands grab him.

“NO!” Jaskier screams.

“Jaskier, stop! Stop it, it’s just me!” Geralt’s voice is rough but concerned. The hands let him go.

Jaskier’s eyes fly open. The bedroom is dark, street lamps casting long shadows on their ceiling through the crack in their open curtains. The air is bitter and chilled from the late autumn transition to winter. 

His chest heaves with short gasps as he begins to shake, teeth chattering. Geralt reaches out and Jaskier flinches away. 

“Wait,” Jaskier whispers as Geralt pulls back, “No, wait, please. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Geralt soothes, gently laying his hand on Jaskier’s clammy back, “It’s okay, I’m here.”

Jaskier hiccups as he’s racked by a powerful shudder and he throws himself into Geralt’s arms. Sobs tear at his throat, ripped free from his aching chest and his tears dampen Geralt’s shirt. Geralt’s arms are strong and safe around him as he clutches at the warm fabric of his husband’s sleep shirt.

Jaskier lifts his head and presses his lips to Geralt’s for wet, desperate kisses as he moves to straddle Geralt’s hips. Geralt melts into it for a moment when Jaskier grinds his hips down before making a soft noise of protest. He gently pushes Jaskier away.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks, ignoring the way his voice is weak and wavering. “Don’t you want this?”

“I do, baby, I do,” Geralt is quick to assure him, “But you’ve just been crying and were terrified just a minute ago. Are you sure  _ you _ want to do this?”

_ “Yes,” _ Jaskier cups Geralt’s face in his hands, pressing their lips together again and again, “Yes. Yes, I do. I  _ need _ you, Geralt.”

“I… Well, if you’re sure,” Geralt still sounds reluctant as Jaskier kisses along his jaw.

“I am, love, I’m positive. Please, Geralt.” Jaskier pulls back to look up at his beloved through tear damp lashes, “I need you in me. I need to know you want me.”

Geralt’s eyes soften with something akin to pity as he brings Jaskier up to kiss him gently, “I  _ do, _ Jask. I promise.”

“They’re just words. I need you to  _ show _ me. Please.”

“Okay,” Geralt whispers against Jaskier’s lips, “Okay, I will.” 

Jaskier wants to go fast. To be taken and fucked hard and rough. He wants bruises and aches left behind as reminders of Geralt’s desire, as penance for his failures. But Geralt slows his bruising kisses, lightens them to tender ones that leave Jaskier nearly crying from the love shown to him. He doesn’t deserve this.

Geralt seems to disagree, however, as he turns them over so Jaskier is laid out beneath him. Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, he knows how hard topping is on Geralt’s leg, but Geralt silences him with a deep, filthy kiss. Geralt’s fingers are light and gentle as they run down Jaskier’s torso, caressing his sharp angles, dancing across his ribs and tapping them one by one. He’s not as emaciated as when Geralt brought him home, but he’s still thin.

Geralt’s hand grips Jaskier’s hip as he grinds their filling cocks together, the layers of fabric beneath a burden that Jaskier intends to be relieved of. His long fingers tug at the buttons of Geralt’s shirt, pulling it open and pushing it off of Geralt’s strong shoulders. Jaskier uses the excuse of removing Geralt’s shirt to feel his husband’s work-hardened muscles as they flex beneath his hands.

Jaskier hums a soft moan as Geralt presses his lips to the column of Jaskier’s throat, kissing and biting with such a gentleness that Jaskier can feel his eyes burning as his hands tremble against Geralt’s back. 

“Okay?” Geralt murmurs. 

Jaskier blinks back the hot tears and nods. “Just keep going.”

Geralt does as instructed, licking Jaskier's nipple and then mouthing along the thick scars that form ropes across his torso and wringing out a choked gasp from him. Jaskier’s hips buck as he shudders through a quiet groan. Geralt hums in… something– approval, Jaskier hopes– as he pulls Jaskier’s pants and boxers down. Jaskier’s hard cock springs free to rest against his belly, a bead of precum dripping slowly down the head. Geralt makes another soft sound, this one definitely appreciation, as he wraps his fingers around Jaskier’s cock and strokes it slowly.

The slight discomfort of Geralt’s dry, callused palm is nothing compared to the absolute euphoria that comes with Geralt’s lips closing around the swollen head of Jaskier’s cock. His tongue presses firmly against the vein on the underside of Jaskier’s shaft and Jaskier gasps, his eyes screwing tightly shut. Geralt’s other hand runs along Jaskier’s sensitive inner thigh to gently pass over his sack and lightly fondle Jaskier’s balls. 

Jaskier whimpers when Geralt pulls back. “Patience,” Geralt murmurs, shuffling up the bed to the bedside table and pulling the K-Y out of it. Jaskier uses this opportunity to shove Geralt’s pants down and snake a hand up the leg of Geralt’s boxers to take Geralt’s warm cock in hand. His husband inhales sharply and pauses for a moment to enjoy it as Jaskier’s thumb spreads the precum that dampens his boxers over his glans.

Geralt glances down at him disapprovingly as Jaskier strokes him slowly. “I’m supposed to be caring for you tonight,” he grumbles and Jaskier’s lips twitch. He’s not able to fully smile, not right now, but it’s something. 

“Making you feel good makes me feel good too, love,” Jaskier says in a low voice, moving closer to mouth at the damp fabric of Geralt’s boxers. Geralt’s hips jerks as he groans softly, threading his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier shifts onto his elbows and knees as he shuffles around to have better access to Geralt’s front, slowly pulling the fabric of Geralt’s underwear down until his cock is released from its textile prison.

“There you are,” Jaskier breathes, looking up at Geralt through his eyelashes. Geralt’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dark as he watches Jaskier’s long fingers wrap around his hip. Jaskier presses tiny butterfly kisses across Geralt’s shaft to the base before licking a stripe along the throbbing vein underneath back to the head; he then takes Geralt’s cock in his mouth, pausing for just a moment to enjoy the weight of it upon his tongue, and then beginning to bob his head slowly. 

He takes his hand to the length of Geralt’s cock that doesn’t fit in his mouth, stroking in time with his lips and tongue. Geralt gasps a moan above him, the hand tightening in his hair, and Jaskier relishes the slight bite of pain as his husband tugs lightly. It keeps him grounded in the moment, unable to float away or let his mind wander. 

He hollows his cheeks as he pulls back and Geralt shouts in response, his hips bucking and making Jaskier choke. Geralt groans an apology. Jaskier takes him deeper, swallowing around him and Geralt gasps. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thighs shaking beneath his thumbs as he curls his fingers around them.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Geralt groans and pulls Jaskier off of him, hauling him up for a filthy, passionate kiss. Jaskier moans into it, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt reaches for the K-Y that he dropped on the bed and pops it open, dipping his fingers into the jelly and rubbing it between his thumb and fingers to warm it. 

Jaskier still jolts slightly when Geralt presses gently at his rim, massaging the tight muscle with practiced familiarity. Jaskier’s head drops to Geralt’s shoulder as he presses one finger into Jaskier’s hole, a shaking breath rattling free. Jaskier’s eyes are burning and his lashes are damp as he clutches at Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt, kindly, doesn’t draw attention to each of Jaskier’s shuddering gasps.

Jaskier pushes back into Geralt’s hand as a second finger is added, a low groan punching free of his tight chest. His cock is weeping against the sheets, and Jaskier opens his watery eyes to see Geralt’s reddened cock hanging heavy and neglected. He runs one shaking hand down Geralt’s torso and around to his front, stroking lightly. Geralt tenses briefly as he shivers.

Geralt’s hand withdraws and Jaskier makes a thin noise of protest that Geralt gently shushes, his free hand rubbing Jaskier’s back firmly. “You’re okay,” Geralt murmurs. His fingers return freshly slicked and tease Jaskier’s hole before slowly adding them back in again, slipping a third in. “I’m here, baby, I’m here.”

Jaskier whines softly, his hand faltering on Geralt’s cock as his lungs spasm with the sobs he’s just barely holding back, tears dripping freely down his face. Geralt presses light kisses to every part of Jaskier he can reach: his hair, his neck, his shoulder, his ear, no part of Jaskier is safe from Geralt’s quiet love. 

Geralt pulls his hand away again just long enough to gently lay Jaskier back, spreading his legs with his knees, and pressing a long kiss to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier hiccups and Geralt smooths his hair back from his damp face, unsticking shaggy strands from wet cheeks. “You okay?” Geralt whispers. Jaskier nods.

“Please… Please, Geralt, I need you.”

Jaskier gasps as Geralt slowly pushes in. Geralt was blessed with well-endowment, and normally it isn’t a difficulty for Jaskier to take him, but it’s been nearly three years since he’s lain with his husband. Guilt eats at Jaskier for withholding this from his partner, first the war and then his own insecurities stopping him from giving Geralt everything he deserves.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier sniffles. Geralt looks confused, his face shadowed with the night that surrounds them and the moonlight that glitters off his ivory shoulders.

“Whatever for?”

“Neglecting you. You’ve… I mean it would have been okay if you wanted to, y’know,” Jaskier swallows thickly and turns his face away, “see other people while I was… was gone.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is soft, tender. “Jaskier, look at me.”

Red rimmed blue eyes turn to Geralt.

“I didn’t– and don’t– want anyone else. Even if I was feeling lonely, I had every tool at my disposal to take care of it,” Geralt smirks and wiggles the fingers of his right hand. Jaskier laughs wetly.

“Still, though, three years, Geralt…”

“Are nothing when my heart beats only for you.”

“Becoming a poet?” Jaskier wipes his eyes, a small smile on his chapped lips. “I thought that was my job.”

Geralt sniffs dramatically, “Someone had to pick up the slack while you were so bravely defending Redania.”

“Brave, huh?” 

“Absolutely.” The conviction with which Geralt says it almost convinces Jaskier that he wasn’t a coward in war.

Jaskier huffs a silent laugh, “If you say so, love.”

Geralt’s eyes soften and he bends down to press his lips to Jaskier’s, running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier wraps his legs around Geralt’s hips, digging his heels into the back of Geralt’s thighs and urging him to move. Geralt takes Jaskier’s lower lip between his teeth, sharp canines biting into the soft flesh in warning. Jaskier gasps into Geralt’s mouth as Geralt slowly starts to rock his hips against Jaskier’s.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes. “Fuck, you feel so good, Geralt, love.”

Geralt hums a moan in response, tucking his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and increasing his pace. Jaskier groans loudly, letting his head fall back as Geralt’s stomach rubs against the head of Jaskier’s cock. Geralt swears and presses open kisses to Jaskier’s neck, biting and nipping at the pale skin. 

Jaskier presses his eyes against Geralt’s shoulder as they start to burn again. He’s safe.  _ Safe. _ He’s here with Geralt– fingers digging into his hip, fevered skin pressed together, the beat of Geralt’s heart real– not back in that dingy cell, not knee-deep in mud, not wasting away in Winneburg. No, Jaskier is safe in Geralt’s arms in their shitty little apartment. This feeling of love, of security, wells up so grand in his chest that he nearly chokes on it.

“Keep going,” Jaskier sobs, his arms tight around Geralt as his tears dampen his love’s patchy shoulder, “Don’t stop, Geralt, I’m okay. I’m–” he grits his teeth against the next wave of tears that threaten to break him down. “Sorry, sorry, I’m okay I just–”

“Feel safe,” Geralt murmurs and Jaskier nods. 

He feels as though he’s been flayed open, his blackened and stained heart put upon display, and still Geralt chooses to love him. “Yeah,” he laughs, tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair to press their lips together, “yes. I feel safe with you.”

_ “Jaskier.” _

“Geralt,” he breathes, pressing their foreheads together. The air they share is hot and humid, hands tangled in hair and noses bumping with each thrust. Jaskier can feel heat pooling in his gut, a coil tightening with each rasp of Geralt’s stomach against his cock. He hooks his arm over Geralt’s neck as his gasping breaths come short and sharp. “Geralt, I’m close.”

Geralt grunts– Jaskier thinks it’s an affirmative or, at the very least, an acknowledgement– and uses his free hand to kant Jaskier’s hips up. He drives in deeper, cock rubbing against Jaskier’s prostate, and Jaskier breathily cries out. “Fuck, Geralt, yes! Right there, love.”

“Come on, baby, come for me,” Geralt captures Jaskier’s mouth with his again, swallowing down Jaskier’s noisy gasp as he paints their stomachs with stripes of white. Geralt’s hips stutter as he loses his rhythm, Jaskier tightening around him in ecstasy about to push him over the edge as well.

“In, in, I want you to come in me,” Jaskier moans as Geralt moves to pull out. Before Geralt can even question him, Jaskier kisses him hard, “Want to feel you fill me up.”

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt groans but does as he’s told, burying himself deep as he finishes. A few more half-hearted thrusts are born of his twitching hips until Geralt stills. Both of them are gasping for breath, arms wrapped around each other and legs entwined as they lay chest to chest, hearts beating in tandem.

“We should get cleaned up,” Geralt murmurs after a while. Jaskier makes a soft noise of protest, half asleep already.

“In a minute.”

The sticky mess they made is a pain to clean in the morning, but Jaskier thinks feeling safe is worth the trade off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	6. Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [ghostinthelibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary) for beta-ing!

**Spring - 1947**

On a bright spring morning, not long after the snow melt, Geralt and Jaskier are wed. With birds twittering and new plant growth waving in the gentle breeze, the air is full of the buzz of excitement. The grass is green, the flowers are blooming, and the sun shines happily overhead. Lambert and Eskel are setting up chairs in a field of Kaer Morhen farms, a beautiful white arch erected at the front and red silk petals scattered down the aisle.

In the farm house nearby, Jaskier is straightening the tie of his navy blue suit. His shoes are shined, his hair is trimmed, and he sports a rakish shadow of facial hair that he knows Geralt likes. He paints his lips a deep red, lines his eyes with kohl, and polishes his cufflinks with a handkerchief. His heart is beating fast and his mouth is dry, but he knows this decision was the right one.

There’s a knock on the door before it opens, Ciri announcing her presence with a loud sigh as she flops onto the bed. “Why are weddings so  _ boring?” _

“Boring, are they?” Jaskier glances at her in the mirror, blue eyes twinkling. He’s able to ignore the scar that tugs at his skin as he smiles, at least for a little bit. “You just hate love.”

“I do not!” She rolls onto her knees, surely wrinkling her dress, and wrinkles her nose at him, “It’s just so long before anything fun happens! Mummy dressed me up in this itchy skirt and I don’t even get to do anything in it until I throw flowers in the ceremony.”

“Well I’ve got something you can do for me, if you’d like,” Jaskier scoops up his dog tags from the dresser and walks over, “You can help me put these on?”

“What are they?” Ciri sticks her small hand out, watching Jaskier let the chain puddle in her palm.

“They’re my identification from the army.” He kneels down in front of her. “They’re extremely important to me.”

“Dad says you were hurt by the army. Why would you keep these?” 

“Because it reminds me every day of what I have,” Jaskier pats her soft cheek, “Of what I survived to achieve. That I made it.”

“Made it where?”

“Made it here.”

“What’s so special about here?”

Jaskier laughs and runs his fingers through Ciri’s fair hair, “You, for starters. Your father. Your mother. All of your aunts and uncles and the horses that live here. Even the bugs in the ground and the birds in the sky are special.”

“But  _ why?” _

“Because,” Jaskier sighs softly with a small, sad smile, “I wouldn’t get to see any of it if I had died.”

Ciri doesn’t speak for a long moment as she unclasps the chain of the tags and leans forward to put them around Jaskier’s neck. 

“I guess that is pretty special,” she says quietly.

Jaskier hums in agreement before standing and scooping Ciri into his arms, the little girl squealing with laughter. He doesn’t want to see her so sad and pensive, he’s still not thrilled Geralt told her the abridged version of his time in the war– he understands  _ why _ Geralt did, it would have been cruel to not explain to Cirilla the reasons for Jaskier’s skittishness– but it leaves her quiet when she thinks about it for too long. 

He grabs her arm and blows a raspberry on it, leaving behind a red ring of lipstick, as he turns her upside down. Ciri shrieks and kicks her feet happily, her face turning red from the inversion. 

“Jaskier! Jask! Daddy!”

Jaskier freezes and she claps a hand over her mouth and looks up at him with wide eyes. “I… sorry, Jaskier, it slipped out.”

He turns her rightside up again and settles her on his hip, thankful he’s gained enough weight and muscle back to hold her at all, “Ciri… do you want to call me daddy?” Jaskier’s voice is hushed, his stomach twisting with excited nerves. He doesn’t want to push her, but he’s considered her his daughter for years now.

She blushes pink and nods, toying with the ends of his hair, “Is that okay?”

Jaskier sucks in a breath and hugs her close, pressing his forehead to hers as he grins at her. “Of course, as long as you don’t mind me calling you my little girl.”

“I’m not little,” Ciri pouts at him, but her eyes are smiling with happy relief.

“Still little enough for me to hold you in my arms.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and he opens his mouth to reply when there’s a knock on his door and it opens a crack. “Ciri?” Geralt’s voice comes from the other side and Jaskier instantly smiles. “Are you in here?”

“She is,” Jaskier sets her down, swatting her shoulders lightly to prompt her towards the door, “She’ll be right there, love.”

“Gross,” Ciri mutters and waves to Jaskier before slipping through the door. 

As it closes he hears Geralt’s hushed voice asking with a sense of urgency, “Ciri have you seen the rings? I can’t find them and I swear I either had them in my pocket or handed them to you.”

Jaskier glances around the floor and spots two gold rings on the carpet. They must have fallen out of Ciri’s pockets when he turned her over, so Jaskier picks them up and opens the door just enough to offer the rings to Ciri with a wink, “I think you lost these.”

“Thanks, daddy,” Ciri whispers before running up to Geralt, “Here they are, dad!”

“Thank the gods,” Geralt mutters and glances up the hall to see Jaskier through the sliver of door. Jaskier’s mouth has gone dry.

Geralt’s dressed in a sharp black suit that Jaskier doesn’t recognize and he suddenly feels under dressed in his reliable blue one; should he have bought a new suit? He didn’t think they could afford new dress clothes. Regardless of his own insecurity, Geralt looks amazing. The cut of the suit accentuating his broad shoulders and slim hips, it frames his sharp jaw beautifully and Jaskier thinks if he blinks he’ll find that Geralt is a statue carved by Michelangelo himself. Almost ethereal in his beauty.

“You look amazing,” Geralt breathes and the spell is broken. Jaskier turns pink as he glances down at his own suit. It’s slightly ill-fitting, he forgot to get it tailored since the last time he wore it when he had more bulk, and the pinstripes are almost definitely out of fashion. 

“Oh, I don’t think–”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts him, taking a step forward, “You look  _ amazing.” _

Jaskier blushes darker and his fingers come up to cover the scarred side of his mouth, “You clean up pretty nice, too. Looking like a proper dish for once.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and stops in front of the door, leaning on his cane, “Can you open that? I wanna see my husband.”

“I’m the only one in here, you’ll have to find him elsewhere.”

_ “Jaskier,” _ Geralt sighs, casting his eyes skyward. Jaskier snickers and steps back.

“Bad luck, you know, seeing your bride before the wedding.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re already married, don’t you think?” Geralt closes the door behind him and pulls Jaskier closer with an arm around Jaskier’s waist, “You really do look beautiful. Like a right glitterati.”

“Geralt, stop it, I’m gonna catch fire and then you’re gonna be left with a smoking corpse for a wife.” Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder to hide the dark flush on his cheeks. “You can’t say such nice things to me.”

“And why can’t I?”

“I’ll get an even bigger ego than I’ve already got, and we don’t want that.”

Geralt hums and presses his lips to Jaskier’s hair, “I think I do want that. You’re absolutely sweet, really killer diller.”

“Since when do you use so much slang?” Jaskier laughs, pulling away to look up at Geralt adoringly.

“Since it gets you to smile like that.”

The blush that just started to fade returns full force, “Fucking…  _ Geralt.” _

“Later, baby.”

Jaskier smacks him on the arm but can’t stop the smile that pulls at his lips and mangles his scar, “Hush, you. We have to be on our best behavior for once, your family is here.”

Geralt makes a show of looking around the empty room, “I didn’t know they could turn invisible.”

A huff of exasperation leaves Jaskier, “Good gods, Geralt. You’re gonna finish what Nilfgaard started.”

Geralt grimaces and Jaskier’s smile slips. “Sorry,” Jaskier says softly, “too soon?”

“Just a little,” Geralt presses their foreheads together, “I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and this– all of this, ever since I picked you up in Redania– is going to have been a dream and you’ll still be gone.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sighs gently, “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He tilts his chin up to leave a slow, sweet kiss upon Geralt’s lips. “I’m right where I want to be.”

“Mm, good. Because this is where I want to be, too.”

Jaskier glances over at the clock on the dresser and smiles, “Only a few more minutes, love, and then it’ll be really real. We’ll be married in front of all of our friends and family, not just a judge.”

“I can’t wait,” Geralt kisses him again, his strong arm tightening around Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, giving as good as he’s getting. He can feel the fluttering of Geralt’s eyelashes on his cheeks, hear the rasp of their facial hair, taste the mint that Geralt ate earlier. It grounds him and reminds him that he’s not gone, he’s not lost.

Jaskier is here.

It takes a few minutes before Jaskier is able to extract himself from Geralt’s embrace, not that he particularly wanted to leave it anyway, so that he can clean up the lipstick on Geralt’s face and reapply it to his own. “Time to get married, darling,” Jaskier whispers, caressing Geralt’s cheek before linking their arms together. 

They walk outside to the sound of Jaskier’s friends playing the wedding march on an amalgamation of instruments scrounged up from second-hand shops around Ard Carraigh. Priscilla is playing a mouth organ while Essi teases the strings of a ukulele, Aiden has his hands on an accordion and even Lambert is on a cheap set of bongos. It’s a ridiculous combination of instruments, truly, and both husbands-to-be cringe at the awful rendition even as they grin at how perfectly terrible it is.

Ciri leads the way, tossing yellow rose petals from the basket she carries, with Geralt and Jaskier following her down the aisle. Yennefer beckons for Ciri to sit in the front row as the betrothed couple stand at the altar, Vesemir standing before them.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of these two men in matrimony. If there are any who object to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Not a sound can be heard except for the very faint sniffling of Lambert as he tries not to cry. Jaskier’s shoulders release a tension he didn’t know he was carrying, holding Geralt’s free hand in both of his own, as Vesemir continues to ministrate their wedding.

“As I guide you into taking your vows, you, Geralt Vesson, and you, Julian Pankratz will declare your intentions for a lasting partnership in love in marriage. Are you prepared to do this?”

Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes, just the faintest bit of doubt tickling his anxious stomach. Geralt squeezes his hand and nods. “Yes.”

Vesemir smiles, “Very well, without further ado, you may exchange your vows.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, holding Jaskier’s gaze with a fierce intensity that Jaskier wants to shrink away from even as he wants to dive deeper into it. “I, Geralt Vesson, take you, Julian Pankratz, to be my husband. I promise that from this day forward I will regard you not only as my equal partner but as my closest friend. I promise to comfort you in sickness and in health. I promise to demonstrate my commitment to you through love, laughter, and compassion until death do us part. I love you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are watering as he swallows thickly and clears his throat before daring to speak. “I, Julian Pankratz, take you, Geralt Vesson, to be my husband. I promise from this day forward I will regard you not only as my equal partner but as my closest friend. I promise to comfort you in sickness and in health. I will demonstrate my commitment to you through love, laughter, and compassion… until death do us part.” His voice breaks so clears his throat again and laughs. “Sorry, I can’t stop crying. I love you, Geralt, more than anything in the world.”

“Please present one another your rings. These rings symbolize the strength of your commitment to this marriage and the love you share,” Vesemir recites and Geralt reaches into his pocket to withdraw both rings, handing the larger of the two to Jaskier. They both had agreed Jaskier shouldn’t hold onto them if they didn’t want the rings being completely lost.

“Jaskier,” Geralt takes Jaskier’s left hand and slides the ring onto the fourth finger, “I love you, more than anyone other than Ciri.”

“Understandably so,” Jaskier gives a watery chuckle as the congregation laughs.

“The time you were gone was some of the worst years of my life, and I never want to let you go ever again,” Geralt leans his cane against the arch to take Jaskier’s hand in both of his, “With this ring I pledge myself to you. My love, my body, my mind, it all belongs to you. I love you.”

Jaskier wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, uncaring of the way the running kohl stains the white fabric and sniffles loudly, “Geralt, you’re not allowed to be that sweet. I’m never going to stop crying at this rate.” Geralt smiles and brings Jaskier’s hand to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to the ring that now adorns Jaskier’s finger.

He takes a shaking breath to calm himself as he slips the larger ring onto Geralt’s finger, “Geralt, I’ve loved you since the moment I met you at the grocer’s after crashing into you because I was reading a tabloid instead of watching where I was going. Instead of yelling at me, you just cussed me out and then asked me on a date. It was the most confusing first meeting I’ve ever had, I must admit, but I can’t say I regret saying yes seven years later. For I get to marry my best friend, my closest confidant, and the man I know is my soulmate. I love you, Geralt, with your infinite patience and sharp tongue, your dry wit and acts of silent love. 

“I never want to be apart from you as long as I was ever again, and with this ring I give to you my heart and soul. Forever yours to do with, so please treat them kindly,” Jaskier brings Geralt’s hand to his lips, a soft kiss of his own bestowed upon Geralt’s ring. It’s with no small amount of smug satisfaction that he notices Geralt looking a bit misty eyed himself.

“With the power vested in me by the country of Kaedwen before your witnesses,” Vesemir is grinning as he announces their union, “it is my great pleasure to pronounce you spiritually and lawfully united. You may kiss your husband.”

Geralt surges forward to capture Jaskier’s lips in a passionate kiss, wrapping his arms around Jaskier and dipping the slighter man back. Jaskier laughs in delight as he throws his arms around Geralt’s shoulders before kissing back to the cheers of the congregation. He’s never been happier than he is at this exact moment.

After they part, Geralt grabs his cane and they walk up the aisle to the continued cheering of their friends and family as rice is showered over them. Jaskier’s cheeks hurt from smiling, even as they steal kisses along the way to the barn; it’s been converted into a beautiful dance hall, candles lit on every set table and lights strung across the loft to create a delicate golden glow indoors. Before Geralt and Jaskier step inside, however, they’re pulled aside by Yennefer.

“Gotta get some photographs,” she smiles, gesturing to a photographer set up nearby.

“We didn’t hire a photographer,” Jaskier says in confusion and Yennefer winks. Jaskier feels like he might fall through the grass below his feet if he moves wrong, his chest tightening and his heart starting to thunder in his ears.

“Congratulations on your marriage, it’s my gift to you.”

Geralt glances at Jaskier even as he smiles and nods, “Thank you, Yennefer. Will you excuse us for just a moment?” He pulls Jaskier over and around the side of the barn as Jaskier’s eyes fill with panicked tears and his breath comes short and sharp.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, you’re okay, Jask,” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand in his, pressing it against his chest, “Breathe with me, yeah? In and out, baby, you’ve got this.” 

_ “Geralt. _ Geralt, I can’t. I can’t take a photograph,” Jaskier shakes his head, “I can barely look in the mirror still, how am I to be in a photo?”

“You don’t have to be,” Geralt says soothingly, “We can politely decline Yennefer’s gift, it’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Jask, I promise.”

“It’ll be a waste of her money if we say no, though.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand, Jaskier.”

Jaskier takes a few deep breaths, trying his very best to match Geralt’s breathing. He doesn’t want to take a photo, to have his garish scar immortalized on paper as well as flesh. He can hardly stand his own reflection, how will he manage seeing a photograph of his face for the rest of their lives? 

But… 

What if Geralt wants the photo? It’s his wedding too, after all. Would Jaskier be depriving his husband of something he desires? 

“Geralt, do you want a photograph?” Jaskier asks quietly once he has his breath under control. Geralt opens his mouth but Jaskier cuts him off, “And be truthful, please.”

Geralt glances down and away before nodding slightly, “I think I’d like a memory of this day, one that won’t deteriorate much with time as human memory does. And you’ve helped me become more confident in my appearance, despite the vitiligo.”

Jaskier looks at him for a very long moment as he works up the courage to nod back, “Okay. Okay, we can have our photo taken.”

“Are you sure, Jaskier?” Geralt looks up quickly, “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”

“I know. And I don’t. But this is important to you, and I love you, so we can take the photograph,” he squeezes Geralt’s chest lightly.

Geralt’s shoulders relax as he melts, pulling Jaskier in for a kiss. “Gods, Jaskier, I love you,” he breathes against Jaskier’s lips. 

“I love you, too,” Jaskier murmurs before stepping away, “Now, let’s take that picture before I change my mind.” 

Geralt smiles and nods and they walk back around to the front of the barn, Yennefer and the photographer still standing there and waiting. Yennefer looks mildly concerned in the crease of her brow even as her face betrays no other emotion. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. Geralt glances at Jaskier who nods.

“Yes, thank you. Now, let’s take some photos.”

After posing for what must have been two dozen pictures– varying from just the two of them to including numerous members of the family– Geralt and Jaskier walk into the barn, only to be greeted by a loud cheer and applause. Jaskier stiffens slightly, loud noises still give him pause, and Geralt laces their fingers together to reassure him. 

His smile is a bit stiff as he follows Geralt to the table at the front of the dance floor, the two of them sitting down. As the night goes on, with dinner and dancing and joy, Jaskier relaxes again. Never so much that his eyes aren’t flitting around the room or to stray far from Geralt’s side, but enough that his foot taps to the beat of the music, this time from a hired band, and his head rests on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Is it everything you dreamed of? When you thought about us getting married?” Jaskier asks Geralt softly, just barely loud enough to be heard over the stomping feet and clapping hands of the jig being danced before them. Geralt looks over at Jaskier and smiles softly with a nod.

“Everything and more.”

“Good. You deserve this.”

“And you don’t?” Geralt asks curiously. Jaskier snickers.

“I didn’t say that. I just think that you’ve done a lot for me, and deserve something nice as your reward.”

Geralt smiles softly, “Being with you is all the reward I need.”

Jaskier blinks and turns faintly pink, “That wasn’t an invitation for you to be terribly sweet to me, Geralt.”

“What was it then?”

“An opening for you to get us out of here so we can consummate our marriage, obviously,” Jaskier sits up to look at him with a smirk and a wink. 

Geralt flushes as he glances at Jaskier’s mouth, “Obviously.”

“So? Going to take me to bed, husband?” Jaskier leans closer to brush his lips lightly against Geralt’s.

Geralt breathes in with a smile, “Absolutely.”

They stand together and make their excuses to knowing eyes and teasing smiles before departing from their reception and crossing the now starlit field to the farmhouse. The night is new and quiet, crickets chirping in the grass and their wedding arch glowing under the cool moonlight. The night jasmine blooms and perfumes the air with a light sweetness that Jaskier closes his eyes to enjoy, trusting Geralt to guide them home.

Once the door to their room is closed behind them, Jaskier and Geralt pull apart and speak simultaneously:

“Before we do anything–”

“Geralt, I wanted to–”

They both pause and then laugh, Jaskier ducking his head to rub the back of his neck bashfully, “You go first.”

Geralt guides them to sit at the edge of the bed. “Before we go further, I… I wanted to give you your wedding gift.” He reaches over and pulls a ring box out of the bedside table. 

“Isn’t it a bit redundant to give me a ring on our wedding night?” Jaskier jokes and Geralt huffs a laugh before holding the box out. “Maybe, but I think you’ll want this ring too.” He opens the lid and Jaskier inhales sharply. Glittering rubies and shining sapphires inlaid into the pattern of a nautical knot greet him. He knows what this ring is, knows there’s  _ J.A.P. _ inscribed on the inside of the band along with a motto in the old tongue that even Jaskier doesn’t know how to read anymore.

“My family ring,” Jaskier whispers, “I– how did you find it? I pawned it ages ago.”

“To leave money for me to fall back on while you were gone, I know,” Geralt nods and takes the ring out of the box, slipping it on to Jaskier’s right hand, “It took me a while to track it down, but I did it, clearly.”

“Oh,  _ Geralt,” _ Jaskier wipes his eyes, looking at the last remnant of his family, “Now my gift doesn’t feel nearly as impressive.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” Geralt assures him, “I love everything you give me.”

“Even when I gave you the flu?”

“Well, maybe not the flu,” Geralt smiles.

Jaskier chuckles, “Good, I wouldn’t want you to be happy about being sick.” His fingers go to his throat, toying with the chain of his dog tags before he pulls them out from under his shirt and takes them off. 

He presses them into Geralt’s palm, keeping his eyes lowered as he covers Geralt’s hand in his own, “I… well, they’re certainly no long lost family ring, but I thought– I mean, I figured maybe you’d want these. They reminded me of what I survived, and they’ll remind you that I made it back. That I’m here with you. That we get to have a future together.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is thick and Jaskier looks up to see tears drip down his beloved’s cheeks. “Jaskier, baby, are you sure?”

“More than anything,” he nods and leans in to press his lips to Geralts as he takes the tags and fastens them around Geralt’s neck. Geralt inhales sharply through his nose and tugs Jaskier closer by the lapels of his jacket as he falls back on the bed. Jaskier laughs and straddles Geralt’s hips, threading his fingers through Geralt’s hair and rocking up into a happy kiss.

Geralt groans as Jaskier presses his hips down, grinding together their clothed erections. The wedding bands on their fingers gleam in the low light from the bedside lamp and Jaskier drags his teeth over Geralt’s jaw as he nips and mouths his way down to the collar of Geralt’s shirt. He pushes Geralt’s jacket off of his broad shoulders before kissing each part of exposed chest as he unbuttons Geralt’s black shirt.

Jaskier grimaces as he pulls a wiry chest hair out of his mouth and Geralt laughs, his cheeks turning a faint pink. Jaskier winks and opens his mouth to say something when Geralt pushes his head back down into Geralt’s stomach.

“Oi!” Jaskier laughs, his nose smushed into warm skin. He blows a raspberry on Geralt’s abdomen and Geralt jerks with a shout.

“Watch it! You know I don’t like being tickled,” Geralt attempts to look cross but his eyes are crinkled with mirth as he sits up on his elbows.

Jaskier grins up at him, his deft fingers unbuckling Geralt’s belt, “I’m well aware, my love. But can you blame me for gifting to you the pleasure of my lips on your tummy?”

“My tummy? What, am I six?”

“You sure act like it sometimes.”

Geralt smirks and runs a hand through his long hair, “Well, I’d rather be six than an infant.”

Jaskier gasps dramatically at him, “Are you calling me infantile, Geralt? Huh? When I’m trying to suck your cock?”

“Doesn’t seem like that’s what you’re trying to do at all. Looks to me like you’re playing with my hips.”

Jaskier glances down, having to concede that he is just rubbing his thumbs along Geralt’s exposed hip bones, “You’ve got very nice hips, darling. Very…  _ hip-like.” _

Geralt snorts, letting himself fall back on the mattress and tossing an arm over his eyes, “Let me know when you want to get back to sucking my cock, yeah? I’m going to take a nap in the meantime.”

“Rude! Rude husband, you’re so cruel to me,” Jaskier pouts but he nuzzles his nose into the crease of Geralt’s hip as he pulls down his husband’s trousers and boxers. “Oughtn’t you be sucking the cock of your blushing bride?”

“Jaskier, you haven’t been anything close to a blushing bride since you were seventeen.”

“Lies and slander, Geralt! I was at least seventeen and a half when we first slept together.” Jaskier presses kisses and licks along Geralt’s exposed shaft, mouthing lightly at the weeping head. Geralt inhales shakily, pulling his arm away from his eyes for a moment to peer down at Jaskier.

“I was  _ not _ the first person you’ve ever slept with,” he challenges.

Jaskier shakes his head with a smile, “Oh, but to be the bearer of bad news, my dear. You were, in fact, the first and only person I’ve ever slept with.”

“You didn’t tell me that! And you were very confident and seemed experienced!”

“That’s because,” Jaskier uses his thumb to gently pull back Geralt’s foreskin, licking at the reddening glans, “I  _ was _ very confident. And I was the first man you’ve ever been with. So of course,” he takes Geralt in his mouth, sucking for just a second before pulling off with a  _ pop, _ “you would assume I knew what I was doing.”

“Can’t believe you never told me you were a virgin, Jask.”

“I didn’t think it was any of your business. Now, do you want me to keep getting you off or do you want to delve into the intricacies and nuances of the concept of virginity?” Jaskier raises his eyebrows in amusement, watching with mirth as Geralt huffs and rolls his eyes.

“What do you think, wise guy?”

Jaskier grins, “An excellent choice, my love. Now, the first recorded use of the word ‘virginity’ was in 1200, but it’s believed that the concept itself has been around for far longer–”

_ “Jaskier.” _

“Alright, alright,” he laughs again, stroking his fingers along Geralt’s shaft and pressing his thumb into the vein on the underside. Geralt gasps and lets out a soft groan. “Pass me the K-Y, darling.”

Geralt grunts and reaches blindly for the bedside table as Jaskier takes him between his lips again, letting his eyes shut to focus on the feeling of Geralt’s heavy cock on his tongue. While sucking cock isn’t his favorite  _ taste, _ it’s certainly one of his favorite activities. He’s learned to just float away for a bit, let his muscle memory take over as his mind goes pleasantly blank.

Not tonight though. His eyes open again as Geralt passes him the jelly while he bobs his head slowly. Tonight he needs to prepare himself at the same time if he wants to ride Geralt’s cock before exhaustion catches up to them. Bracing one arm across Geralt’s hips, Jaskier relaxes his throat and swallows his husband’s cock fully, his nose pressed into wiry auburn and white hairs. Geralt shouts and his hips twitch, prevented from gagging Jaskier by his precautionary arm.

As he swallows a few times around Geralt’s cock, his free hand easily undoes his own belt and button fly, pushing his trousers down enough to reach behind him. Geralt swears and twists the sheets between his fingers as he bites down on his lip. Jaskier pulls back, blinking away the tears that cloud his eyes and wiping the sheen of saliva from his chin.

“I wanna hear you, love,” his voice is rough– that’ll be a pain to fix tomorrow– but it makes Geralt flush darker, his cock visibly twitching. Jaskier smirks as he dips his fingers into the K-Y. “How could I forget how much you like it when I sound like I’ve been ruined by you?”

“Only me,” Geralt breathes and Jaskier hums scratchily in agreement as he reaches behind himself, circling a finger around his hole before slowly pushing in one slender digit. 

“Only you, love.”

_ “Fuck,” _ Geralt curses and grabs the collar of Jaskier’s shirt, pulling him up into a messy kiss. Jaskier moans as he instinctively curls his fingers, tugging on the rim of his sensitive hole. “You really haven’t been with anyone else?”

“I really haven’t, Geralt,” Jaskier chuckles, “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, no, I just…” Geralt runs his fingers through Jaskier’s short hair, ruffling it gently, “Really takes ‘only me’ to a whole new level, baby.”

Jaskier smiles and presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, “I suppose it does.”

He rolls his hips, his cock rubbing against Geralt’s, and Geralt groans in appreciation. He pulls Jaskier’s head down to his shoulder, nosing at the soft brown locks as Jaskier opens himself up. Geralt’s fingers run down his back, snagging on Jaskier’s white dress shirt.

“Off,” Geralt murmurs, “I want to see you.”

“Only if you allow me the same pleasure,” Jaskier teases even as he sits up to do as he’s told. As he strips his shirt eagerly, Geralt also sheds his shirt and toes off his shoes so that he can shuck off his trousers and underwear until he’s laying back in all his nude glory. Jaskier could paint a thousand pictures with poetry of his husband: of patchy skin and curly hairs, of the soft layer of fat that sits on his gut and hides the intense musculature Jaskier appreciates every single day, of the way his white hair frames his sharp jaw and freckled cheeks. 

“Take a photo, it’ll last longer,” Geralt teases and Jaskier flushes lightly.

“If I did that it could fall into the wrong hands,” Jaskier sniffs as he takes his own pants off. Neither of them mention how they’re keeping their socks on to ward off the spring chill. “And I rather like the idea of being the only one allowed to enjoy all of this.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow as he reaches out to grab Jaskier’s arm and pull him down again, “You just gestured to all of me.”

“And it is all of you,” Jaskier plants a noisy kiss on the tip of Geralt’s nose, “that I love.”

Geralt grumbles but smiles as he cups the back of Jaskier’s neck, guiding him into a proper kiss, “And I, you.”

Jaskier hums into the kiss, reaching for the jelly once more and re-slicking his fingers to keep working himself open. He rolls his hips down and back, teasing Geralt’s cock with his own while pushing into his own fingers to get deeper as he stretches himself. Once he’s able to get a third finger and spread them a good amount– his fingers  _ are _ thinner than Geralt’s after all– he dips into the K-Y again to spread it over Geralt’s cock.

Sinking down onto Geralt is always a pleasurable experience, he could never get tired of this; the slight burn that gives way to pleasure the further he goes, feeling like he’s pushing himself to limits that he has learned to excel at. The sensation of being filled to the brim and knowing that what fills him is the cock of his husband is unparalleled.

Geralt groans as Jaskier rolls his hips, fully seated upon Geralt’s lap. Jaskier himself isn’t faring much better, his breaths coming in gasping moans as he grabs at his own cock roughly, squeezing the base to stop himself from finishing prematurely. It’s not as though he and Geralt have refrained from fucking or anything either, they just had sex two days ago, but sometimes– and both of them are susceptible to it– the euphoria of just being with one another can speed things along at an unsatisfactory pace.

Once he’s certain he’s ready, Jaskier lifts himself up and sinks down again, setting a punishingly slow pace. The burn gives way to the easy slide of sex even as his thighs protest his decisions regarding speed. He regularly clenches around Geralt, too, wringing gasps and groans of his name from his husband’s kiss swollen lips.

It’s a shock when Geralt surges up to kiss him passionately, wrapping an arm around Jaskier and turning them over. Jaskier swears in surprise before melting into a loud moan as Geralt hooks a hand behind one of Jaskier’s knees and folds it up to his chest, opening Jaskier up further so that Geralt can go deeper. The jingling of Jaskier’s tags around Geralt’s neck is a percussion accompaniment to the harmony of their ecstasy.

“F-fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier groans when Geralt angles his hips just right to hit his prostate, “Fuck! Right there, right there,  _ yes!” _

Jaskier shouts Geralt’s name as he comes, his back arching off of the bed and stomach tightening with his release. He certain his fingernails will have left deep red scratches along Geralt’s back and shoulders. 

Geralt grunts and bites down on Jaskier’s shoulder, groaning deeply as he comes with shaking arms, pulling out a moment later and collapsing onto the bed half atop Jaskier. He doesn’t mind the weight though, running his fingers through Geralt’s sweaty hair as he sighs in satisfaction. 

“Every minute spent with you is nothing less than perfection, my dear,” Jaskier murmurs. “However, the perfection of our afterglow is somewhat tarnished by our spend, so pardon me one moment.” He wriggles out from beneath Geralt and gets to unsteady feet, stretching his arms above his head. 

He doesn’t take long wetting a washcloth with warm water, first cleaning off his own body and between his thighs before returning to Geralt to clean him up with a tenderness only reserved for his husband. Geralt smiles at him as he climbs into bed and kisses Geralt slowly, pulling the sheets up over them and settling down into Geralt’s arms.

And later, when Jaskier awakes in a cold sweat, heart rabbiting and memories of war flashing through his mind’s eye, Geralt will reach out as he tries to leave the bed.

“Jaskier,” Geralt will murmur, his fingers wrapped loosely around Jaskier’s wrist. “Stay with me.”

Jaskier will let out a shaking breath, the remnants of the nightmare carried away on it as he lays down once more with his head upon Geralt’s chest. He’ll lay there for a few quiet moments, until Geralt’s nearly fallen asleep again, and then whisper: 

“Always.”

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the main body of the fic ends. I do have an epilogue in the works but it was an afterthought so I have no timeline for when it will be finished and posted and thus consider this fic completed. Thank you for all of the kind comments and kudos given to me over the course of this fic!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


End file.
